Kombat Games
by KingKhrystopher
Summary: Oh yes. But so much more different. Takeda and Kylin.
1. Chapter 1

_PART I_

 _"THE TRIBUTES"_

Chapter 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Khalila's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of The Reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow, sighing deeply. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Khal, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Khal's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the Khalrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Khal's knees, guarding her, is the world's ugliest dog. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Khal named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Khal brought him home. Scrawny ten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Khal begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional stray cat.

Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped barking at me.

Entrails. No barking. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my trekking clothes. Black that has made to fit my body. Made by Hanzo Hasashi, but that's for later. I just say fuck underwear, and grab my Pulse Blades.

Our part of District 2, is usually crawling with diamond miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 2, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods —packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a large arm gauntlet containing my beautiful white whips from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 2. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow.

But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eight then. Ten years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife.

My whips are a rarity, crafted by Grandmaster Hanzo Hasashi, along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. He also made them, along with many of my friends' weapons. He could have made good money selling them publicly, with more workers, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. So the main reason he made mine is because partially, as my mother suspected, my father and he were in a forbidden relationship. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is. Regardless of the fact that we do have one of the wealthiest diamond mines ever, no one stops to wonder about food, when, in fact, they're among our best customers. But we aren't allowed to hunt to make money that way. That's for OutWorld.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow.

Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 2 if trouble arises."District Two. Where you can hide and not die, but slowly be consumed by insanity in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 2, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Khal might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Jin. The boy with the bo. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Jin says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hey, Tape," says Jin. My real name is Takeda, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it.

So he thought I'd said Tape. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.

"Look what I shot," Jin holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It's real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"

"Just a few carats. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Jin. "Even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes.

Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Mileena, the maniacally upbeat pink woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the Reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds —" He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. "—be ever in your favor!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Jin pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same blue eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way.

That's why my mother and Khal, with their light hair and green eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother's parents were part of the higher up class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an jewelry shop and apothecary shop in the nicest part of District 2. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers, and we can get diamonds, but no one can shape em, so jewelers are paid over the amount they should.

My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies.

She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father's sake. But to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.

Jin spreads the bread slices, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Jin, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.

"We could do it, you know," Jin says quietly.

"What?" I ask.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Jin.

I don't know how to respond. The idea is so preposterous.

"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.

They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Jin's little sister. Khal. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.

"I never want to have kids," I say.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Jin.

"But you do," I say, irritated.

"Forget it," he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Khal, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Jin is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did ... even if we did ... where did this stuff about having kids come from? Weld always looked at females as high maintenance and too much to handle. When we met, I was a skinny twelve-year-old, and although he was only two years older, he already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each other out.

Besides, if he wants kids, Jin won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt.

You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me mad but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

"What do you want to do?" I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.

"Let's fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight," he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago, but Jin had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned store that once sold food. When they came up with a more efficient system that could replace food with gems, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat. "Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor's house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford our price. The mayor's daughter, Cassie, opens the door. She's in my year at school. Being the mayor's daughter, you'd expect her to be a snob, but she's all right. She technically lives in District Four, like her dad, but they take space to monitor here. She's really popular in school, always surrounded by her group of SF kids. And that's if she decides not to fly out to D4.

Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress, and her blonde hair is done up in a bun. Reaping clothes.

"Pretty dress," says Jin.

Cassie shoots him a look, trying to see if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Games, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's Jin's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? I'm guessing the second.

"You won't be going to the Games," says Jin coolly.

His eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for months. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old."

"That's not her fault," I say.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," says Jin.

Cassie's face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries in my hand. "Good luck, Takeda." "You, too," I say, and the door closes.

We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don't like that Jin took a dig at Cassie, but he's right, of course.

The reaping system is unfair, with the ones with no collateral getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. You peak at 36, where your name is in 25 times, because those people can give good fights. Then it decreases, at 37 you go to 24, nd so on and so on until you reach the age of fifty, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool 1 last time. That's true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of Panem.

But here's the catch. Say you are starving as we were. You can opt to add your name one more time in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year's supply of bread, chicken and water for one person.

You may do this for each of your family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three times for tesserae for myself, Khal, and my mother. In fact, every year I have needed to do this.

And the entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of twenty-three, my name will be in the reaping fifteen times.

Jin, who is twenty-five and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in twenty times.

You can see why someone like Cassie, who has never been at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Cassie's family, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.

Jin knows his anger at Cassie is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. "It's to the Capitol's advantage to have us divided among ourselves," he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't Reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I'm sure she thought was a harmless comment.

As we walk, I glance over at Jin's face, still smoldering underneath his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so.

It's not that I don't agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let him yell though.

Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

Jin and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

"See you in the square," I say.

"Wear something sexy," he says flatly.

At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go.

My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Khal is in her first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has made it stay with pins. Even so, she's having trouble keeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her dads old tuxes for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says. I let her towel-dry it and stick it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall. I look as though I possess some wealth, not someone who needs tesserae.

"You look cool," says Khal in a hushed voice.

"And nothing like myself," I say. I hug her, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, since she's only entered once. I wouldn't let her take out any tesserae. But she's worried about me. That the unthinkable might happen.

I protect Khal in every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my (ace. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in the back again and force myself to stay calm. "Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the blouse back in place.

Khal giggles and gives me a small "Quack."

"Quack yourself," I say with a light laugh. The kind only Khal can draw out of me. "Come on, let's eat," I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread for this evening's meal, to make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Khal's goat, Lady, and eat the rough bread made from the tessera, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 2 that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Twelve- through fifty-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Khal, toward the back. It lines up in groups of six. Females and males together by age, and the first row end with eighteen. And so on. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be informers, and who hasn't broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the same.

Anyway, Jin and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 2's population of about eight thousand.

Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of twenty-threes from the Seam. We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and a large glass ball. I stare at the paper slips in the ball.

Twenty of them have Takahashi Takeda written on them in careful handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Cassie's father, Mayor Carlton, who's a tall, big man, and Mileena, District 2's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, choppy short hair, and undoubtedly sexy pink dress (Kahnum). They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide two people, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland.

Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last four tributes standing win.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.

Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tributes alive receive a life of ease back home, and their districts will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oill and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 2 victors. In seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. Kano Abernathy, a big, strong, middle-aged man, who used to run District Ten, but got tired of the work. The crowd responds with its token applause.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 2 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Mileena.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Mileena trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Her pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter with Kano. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunks who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Jin looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Jin and his twenty names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor.

Not compared to a lot of the others, who are forced to have more simply because of their age. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.

It's time for the drawing. Mileena says as she always does, "Our first tribute!"and crosses to the glass ball with the names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper.

The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Mileena crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.

It's Khalila Takahashi.

 _Chapter 2_

One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Khal was one slip of paper in thousands!

Her chances of being chosen so remote that I'd not even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

"Khal!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Khal!" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage.

I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps, but guards begin to drag me back. I will not let them have her, _never._

With one sweep of my arm, I push them behind me.

"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!" There's some confusion on the stage. District 2 hasn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become rusty. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible person can step forward to take his or her place. In some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 2, where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.

"Lovely!" says Mileena. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um ..." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. I am the boy who brings the strawberries. The boy his daughter might have spoken of on occasion.

The guy who five years ago stood huddled with his mother and sister, as he presented him, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal for his father, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that?

"What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let him come forward."

Khal is screaming hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her skinny arms around me like a vice. "No, Takeda! No! You can't go!"

"Khal, let go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they televise the replay of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target.

A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go!"

I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see Jin has lifted Khal off the ground and she's thrashing in his arms. "Up you go, Tape," he says, in a voice he's fighting to keep steady, and then he carries Khal off toward my mother. I steel myself and climb the steps.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Mileena. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?" I swallow hard. "Takahashi Takeda," I say.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody!

Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Mileena.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 2, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring.

Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered Khal, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage.

Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 2 as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Khal's place, and now it seems I have become someone precious. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Kano chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate me. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers in his accent, throwing an arm around my shoulders. He's surprisingly strong for such a wreck.

"I like her!" His breath reeks of liquor. "Lots of ... " He can't think of the word for a while. "Spunk!" he says triumphantly. "More than you!" he releases me and starts for the front of the stage.

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol? I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance.

I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Jin.

For a moment, I yearn for something ... the idea of us leaving the district ... making our way in the woods ... but I know I was right about not running off. Because who else would have volunteered for Khal?

Mileena is trying to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbles. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our second tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to wish for Jin's safety when she's reading the name.

"Kylin Jameson."

Kylin Jameson!

Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Kylin Jameson.

No, the odds are not in my favor today. I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over

his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.

Mileena asks for volunteers, but no one steps forward. He has two older brothers, I know, I've seen them in the bakery, but one is probably too old now to volunteer and the other won't. This is standard.

Family devotion only goes so far for most people on reaping day. What I did was the radical thing.

The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point — it's required — but I'm not listening to a word.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Kylin Jameson and I are not friends.

Not even neighbors. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will... .

It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.

The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Khal seemed to affect her.

I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Khal just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Khal and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Khal. Sweet, tiny Khal who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oill to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then.

Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 2.

Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed.

Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Kylin Jameson, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Khal's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle.

I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.

I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any hope.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck.

All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 2.

Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat.

Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.

When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with black hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I?

His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her.

She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer.

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?

My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it.

The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Khal's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. 1 couldn't explain his actions.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Khal and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away.

I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Kylin Jameson, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself.

And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there?

Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Kylin and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Kylin looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays.

Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds are someone else will kill him before I do.

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.

Chapter Three

The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody. I don't mean we're handcuffed or anything, but a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building. Maybe tributes have tried to escape in the past. I've never seen that happen though.

Once inside, I'm conducted to a room and left alone.

It's the richest place I've ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. When I sit on the couch, I can't help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next hour. The time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes and a red nose. Crying is not an option. There will be more cameras at the train station.

My sister and my mother come first. I reach out to Khal and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.

Khal is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if they're careful, on selling Khal's goat milk and cheese and the small apothecary business my mother now runs for the people in the Seam. Jin will get her the herbs she doesn't grow herself, but she must be very careful to describe them because he's not as familiar with them as I am. He'll also bring them game — he and I made a pact about this a year or so ago — and will probably not ask for compensation, but they should thank him with some kind of trade, like milk or medicine.

I don't bother suggesting Khal learn to hunt. I tried to teach her a couple of times and it was disastrous. The woods terrified her, and whenever I shot something, she'd get teary and talk about how we might be able to heal it if we got it home soon enough. But she makes out well with her goat, so I concentrate on that.

When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard. "Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" She nods, alarmed by my intensity.

She must know what's coming. "You can't leave again," I say.

My mother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what—"

"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Khal on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment.

She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. "I was ill. I could have treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."

That part about her being ill might be true. I've seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it's one we can't afford.

"Then take it. And take care of her!" I say.

"I'll be all right, Takeda," says Khal, clasping my face in her hands. "But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win." I can't win. Khal must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who've been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there'll be people like me, too. People to weed out before the real fun begins.

"Maybe," I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I've already given up myself. Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable. "Then we'd be rich as Kano."

"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home. You will try, won't you? Really, really try?" asks Khal.

"Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know, because of Khal, I'll have to.

And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you both." And they're saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.

Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I'm surprised to see it's the baker, Kylin Jameson's father. I can't believe he's come to visit me. After all, I'll be trying to kill his son soon. But we do know each other a bit, and he knows Khal even better. When she sells her goat cheeses at the Hob, she puts two of them aside for him and he gives her a generous amount of bread in return. We always wait to trade with him when his witch of a wife isn't around because he's so much nicer. I feel certain he would never have hit his son the way she did over the burned bread. But why has he come to see me?

The baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. He's a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from years at the ovens. He must have just said goodbye to his son.

He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies.

These are a luxury we can never afford.

"Thank you," I say. The baker's not a very talkative man in the best of times, and today he has no words at all. "I had some of your bread this morning. My friend Jin gave you a few carats for it." He nods, as if remembering the squirrel. "Not your best trade," I say.

He shrugs as if it couldn't possibly matter.

Then I can't think of anything else, so we sit in silence until a Peacemaker summons him. He rises and coughs to clear his throat. "I'll keep an eye on the little girl. Make sure she's eating." I feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at his words. People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of Khal. Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep her alive.

My next guest is also unexpected. Cassie walks straight to me. She is not weepy or evasive, instead there's an urgency about her tone that surprises me.

"They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" She holds out the circular gold pin that was on her dress earlier. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now I see it's a small dragon, its tongue out.

"Your pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is about the last thing on my mind.

"Here, I'll put it on your tux, all right?" Cassie doesn't wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to my tuxedo. "Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Takeda?" she asks. "Promise?"

"Yes," I say. Cookies. A pin. I'm getting all kinds of gifts today. Cassie gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek. Then she's gone and I'm left thinking that maybe Cassie really has been my friend all along.

Finally, Jin is here and maybe there is nothing romantic between us, but when he opens his arms I don't hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt — but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own.

"Listen," he says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get your hands on your whips. That's your best chance."

"They don't make whips. Not the way Scorpion made mine," I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with.

"Then make one," says Jin. "Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all."

I have tried copying my father's bows with poor results. It's not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes.

"I don't even know if there'll be wood," I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly hated that year. Many contestants were eaten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst.

"There's almost always some wood," Jin says. "Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that."

It's true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anti-climactic in the Capitol, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then, there's usually been wood to make fires.

"Yes, there's usually some," I say.

"Takeda, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know," says Jin.

"It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think," I say.

"So do you. And you've had more practice. Real practice," he says. "You know how to kill."

"Not people," I say.

"How different can it be, really?" says Jin grimly.

The awful thing is that if I can forget they're people, it will be no different at all.

The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Jin asks for more time, but they're taking him away and I start to panic. "Don't let them starve!" I cry out, clinging to his hand.

"I won't! You know I won't! Takeda, remember I —" he says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I'll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.

It's a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station. I've never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.

I've been right not to cry. The station is swarming with reporters with their insectlike cameras trained directly on my face. But I've had a lot of practice at wiping my face clean of emotions and I do this now. I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that's airing my arrival live and feel gratified that I appear almost bored.

Kylin Jameson, on the other hand, has obviously been crying and interestingly enough does not seem to be trying to cover it up. I immediately wonder if this will be his strategy in the Games. To appear weak and frightened, to reassure the other tributes that he is no competition at all, and then come out fighting. This worked very well for a girl, Johanna Mason, from District 7 a few years back. She seemed like such a sniveling, cowardly fool that no one bothered about her until there were only a handful of contestants left.

It turned out she could kill viciously. Pretty clever, the way she played it. But this seems an odd strategy for Kylin Jameson because he's a baker's son. All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong.

It will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook him.

We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobble up our images, then we're allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train begins to move at once.

The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.

In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 2 was in a region known is Arkansas. Even hundreds of years ago, they mined here. Which is why our miners have to dig so deep.

Somehow it all comes back to diamond at school. Besides basic reading and math most of our instruction is diamond or coal-related. Except for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem. It's mostly a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol. I know there must be more than they're telling us, an actual account of what happened during the rebellion. But I don't spend much time thinking about it. Whatever the truth is, I don't see how it will help me get food on the table.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water.

We don't have hot water at home, unless we boil it.

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Mileena tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I peel off my granddad's blue tux and take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before. It's like being in a summer rain, only warmer.

I dress in a dark red shirt and denim pants. Comfortable.

At the last minute, I remember Cassie's little gold pin.

For the first time, I get a good look at it. It's as if someone fashioned a small golden dragon and then attached a ring around it. The dragon is connected to the ring only by its bottom. I rings familiarity, its head shape, the dragon body, but I brush it off.

Mileena comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. Kylin Jameson sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty.

"Where's Kano?" asks Mileena brightly.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," says Kylin.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Mileena.

I think she's relieved by Kano's absence, and who can blame her?

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Mileena keeps reminding us to save space because there's more to come. But I'm stuffing myself because I've never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.

"At least, you two have decent manners," says Mileena as we're finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who'd never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat.

And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Kylin's a baker's son. My mother taught Khal and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Mileena's comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

Now that the meal's over, I'm fighting to keep the food down. I can see Kylin's looking a little green, too.

Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down Greasy Sae's concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree bark — a winter specialty — I'm determined to hang on to this.

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since none of them have to attend reapings themselves.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, (the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. A few stand out in my mind. A monstrous boy who lunges forward to volunteer from District 6 for a younger boy. A black girl with black from District 1. A man who looked like a cowboy from District 5.

And most hauntingly, Cassie is chosen. She smiles with a creepy look on her face as she goes onstage. It's as if she's laughing at Kung Jin for saying she couldn't get in.

Last of all, they show District 2. Khal being called, me running forward to volunteer. You can't miss the desperation in my voice as I shove Khal behind me, as if I'm afraid no one will hear and they'll take Khal away. But, of course, they do hear. I see Jin pulling her off me and watch myself mount the stage. The commentators are not sure what to say about the crowd's refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says that District 2 has always been a bit backward but that local customs can be charming.

Kylin's name is drawn, and he quietly takes his place.

We shake hands. They cut to the anthem again, and the pro-gram ends.

Mileena is disgruntled about the state her wig was in. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior." Kylin unexpectedly laughs. "He was drunk," says Kylin. "He's drunk every year."

"Every week," I add. I can't help smirking a little. Mileena makes it sound like Kano just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her.

"Yes," hisses Mileena. "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Kano can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Just then, Kano staggers into the compartment.

"I miss supper?" he says in a sultry, Australian voice. He's not wearing a shirt, like always, so his impressive physique is shown. Then he falls on the floor.

"So laugh away!" says Mileena. She hops in her pointy shoes around Kano and flees the room.

Chapter Four

For a few moments, Kylin and I take in the scene of our mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my dinner up. We exchange a glance.

Obviously Kano isn't much, but Mileena is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. As if by some unspoken agreement, Kylin and I each take one of Kano's arms and help him to his feet.

"I tripped?" Kano asks. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.

"Let's get you back to your room," says Kylin. "Clean you up a bit."

We half-lead half-carry Kano back to his compartment. Since we can't exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread, we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices.

"It's okay," Kylin says to me. "I'll take it from here." I can't help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I want to do is strip down Kano, wash the vomit out of his chest hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Kylin is trying to make a good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games begin. But judging by the state he's in, Kano will have no memory of this tomorrow.

"All right," I say. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." There's any number on the train.

Cooking lor us. Waiting on us. Guarding us. Taking care of us is their job.

"No. I don't want them," says Kylin.

I nod and head to my own room. I understand how Kylin feels. I can't stand the sight of the Capitol people myself. But making them deal with Kano might be a small form of revenge. So I'm pondering the reason why he insists on taking care of Kano and all of a sudden I think, It's because he's being kind. Just as he was kind to give me the bread.

The idea pulls me up short. A kind Kylin Jameson is far more dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. And I can't let Kylin do this. Not where we're going. So I decide, from this moment on, to have as little as possible to do with the baker's son.

For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another district. 7? 10? I don't know.

I think about the people in their houses, settling in for bed. I imagine my home, with its shutters drawn tight. What are they doing now, my mother and Khal?

Were they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lay untouched on their plates?

Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears. Is my mother holding up, being strong for Khal? Or has she already started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my sister's fragile shoulders?

Khal will undoubtedly sleep with my mother tonight.

The thought of that scruffy old Buttercup posting himself on the bed to watch over Khal comforts me. If she cries, he will nose his way into her arms and curl up there until she calms down and falls asleep. I'm so glad I didn't drown him.

Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness.

This day has been endless. Could Jin and I have been eating blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago. Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in District 2, where I belong.

Probably the drawers hold any number of clothes, but I just strip off my shirt, jacket, shoes, tie and pants and climb into bed naked. The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. A thick fluffy comforter gives immediate warmth.

If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face. But no tears come. I'm too tired or too numb to cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion.

...

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me. I hear Mileena's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea.

I rummage through the clothes for something, finding something that looked weird; it was underwear, with a hole in the back, so your ass was exposed. I put it on, and there were two lines going up from the back, inbetween your legs and on the sides of your ass. I decided to wear it, since it felt... Different than just being completely naked, with no underwear at all, like I used to do at home, or when I lived with Jin, for months at a time. So I resolve to wear only the underwear.

As I enter the dining car, Mileena brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering obscenities under her breath, then gives me one good look, and walks away. Kano, his face puffy and red from the previous day's indulgences, is chuckling. "So, yeh like jocks, eh?"

Kylin holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed. He looks at Kano, and I notice that he can see, as I can, that Kano is dressed like I am; except he's completely and truly naked.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Kano, waving me over.

The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. I look at Kano as I eat, he chews his food loudly and I can't deal.

The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice. I've only even tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my father bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I've never seen.

"They call it hot chocolate," says Kylin. "It's good." I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I've drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I'll never see food again.

And I said, "I won't unless I bring it home." That shut her up.

When my stomach feels like it's about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions.

Kylin is still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate. Kano hasn't paid much attention to his platter, but he's knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say to Kano.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Kano, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Kylin before I remember I'm having nothing more to do with him. I'm surprised to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so mild.

"That's very funny," says Kylin. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Kano's hand. It shatters on the floor, sending the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. "Only not to us." Kano considers this a moment, then punches Kylin in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself to deflect his hit, but it doesn't come. Instead he sits back and squints at us.

"Well, what's this?" says Kano. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

Kylin rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red mark on his jaw.

"No," says Kano, stopping him. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," says Kylin.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," says Kano. He turns to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

The whip is my weapon. But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well.

Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Kano's attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.

"Stand over here. Both of you," says Kano, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces, groping my ass a lot, which pokes out through the underwear. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough." Kylin and I don't question this. The Hunger Games aren't a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Kano. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

It's not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.

"Fine," says Kylin.

"So help us," I say. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone—"

"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Kano.

"But —" I begin.

"No buts. Well, except yours," he says, staring, but switches back to us. "Don't resist," says Kano. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark.

There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as if night has fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.

Kylin Jameson and I stand in silence as the train speeds along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.

The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment. We can't help it. Both Kylin and I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The cameras haven't lied about its grandeur.

If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in District 2.

The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch us die. But Kylin holds his ground, actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when the train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view.

He sees me staring at him and shrugs. "Who knows?" he says. "One of them may be rich."

I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Khal ... did Kylin put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering to wash Kano but then challenging him this morning when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd.

All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has a plan forming. He hasn't accepted his death.

He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Kylin Jameson, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.

Chapter Five

R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!"

Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s ... no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them.

Venia makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face."Good news, though. This is the last one.

Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod. The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.

I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems. This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the stuff, and although I usually try to keep it clean and under control, it leaves me feeling like a plucked bird, ready for roasting.

Especially when they start on my pubic hair. That hurts like a bitch. Why do they even need to remove that?

I don't like it.

My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my side of the bargain with Kano, and no objection has crossed my lips.

"You're doing very well," says some guy named Flavius. He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. "If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease him down!"

Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet.

The three step back and admire their work.

"Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Flavius, and they all laugh.

I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am. "Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in District Two." This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Octavia clasping her hands together in distress for me.

"But don't worry," says Venia. "By the time Cinna is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!"

"We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Flavius encouragingly. "Let's call Cinna!"

They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me.

I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky mess my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left her blue tux and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had.

The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna enters. I'm taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and surgically altered they're grotesque.

But Cinna's close-cropped hair appears to be its natural shade of brown. He's in a simple black shirt and pants. The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his gray eyes. And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their hideous fashions, I can't help thinking how attractive it looks.

"Hello, Takeda. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol's affectations.

"Hello," I venture cautiously.

"Just give me a moment, all right?" he asks. He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?"

"My mother," I say.

"It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," he says.

I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter.

Cinna has met none of these expectations.

"You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been around my whole life.

"Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Cinna.

"So they gave you District Twelve," I say. Newcomers generally end up with us, the least desirable district.

"I asked for District Twelve," he says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat."

Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across from me. He presses a button on the side of the table.

The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch. Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.

I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button? How would I spend the hours I now commit to bing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by?

What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Cinna's eyes trained on mine. "How despicable we must seem to you," he says.

Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? He's right, though. The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

"No matter," says Cinna. "So, Takeda, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Kylin. And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes," says Cinna. "As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district." For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your district's principal industry. District 1, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories. This means that coming from District 2, Kylin and I will be in some kind of coal or, more likely, diamond miner's up. Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust. It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

"So, I'll be in a diamond miner outfit?" I ask, hoping it won't be indecent.

"Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner thing's very overdone. No one will remember you in that. And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes unforgettable," says Cinna.

I'll be naked for sure, I think.

"So rather than focus on the mining itself, we're going to focus on the materials produced," says Cinna. Naked and covered in black dust, I think. "And what do we do with coal? We burn it, or crush it, and it sparkles," says Cinna.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you, Takeda?" He sees my expression and grins.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies. I'm in a badass black armor bodysuit that covers me from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees. But it's the sparkling lights all over the costume that make it what it is. Diamonds bedazzle me from head to toe, even my fingernails have been painted in asthetic silver, basically, mirrors. Kylin, however, is dressed in a suit which has a cape on the back, and all over his body, and he has liquid that has been poured on his clothes, and he will be set afire when we go out. So, diamonds, and fire. With his lights and my sparkles, we might as well be mirroring each other, but it is obvious what we are wearing. The lights or fire has not been turned on, but we can get the gist.

"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I me up with. You'll be perfectly safe," he says. But I'm not convinced Kylin and I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center. But if he is, that makes it easier on me.

My face is relatively clear of make up, just a bit of highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed out and put up with a band in myhair I have always kept, my dad's fabric. It's a gold long stretch of fabric, made for his eyes, as my father was blind, so he gave it to me. "I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Cinna dreamily."Takeda, the man who set sparkle to the stage." It crosses my mind that Cinna's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.

Kylin's stylist, Portia, and her team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Cinna. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.

We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable.

The opening ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours are specifically made for us. One has a sparkly mane, tied up with jewels, its body sleek, with gorgeous gems on it, and one who is duller, with the same liquids as Kylin. The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our clothes, before moving off to consult with each other.

"What do you think?" I whisper to Kylin. "About the fire?"

"I like it," he says through gritted teeth. "It'll make us-"

The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin.

The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted white, in tasteful tunics with flowers all around. District 2 is known as LotusRealm, as they are inhabited by the white flower.

You can hear the roarofthe crowd. They are always favorites.

District 11 gets into position to follow them. In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray. The tributes from District 3 are just rolling out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch.

"Here we go then," he says, and before we can react he sets Kylin's cape on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us and ignites his hair. He lets out a sign of relief. "It works." Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures.

"What's he saying?" I ask Kylin. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. And I can see it, the arms of my armor suit are glistening and shimmering with light.

The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of "District Two!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight and sparkles illuminates our faces.

We seem to be leaving a trail of fire and fairy dust off us capes. Cinna was right about the minimal make up, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.

Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Cinna's voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my hand. I'm glad now I have Kylin to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock.

The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program.

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name.

Takeda. The man who set the world to sparkle.

For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games?

Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and throw a salute back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my salute, as if it were a real and tangible thing. Whores.

"Takeda! Takeda!" I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my graces.

I can't help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow's mansion, and we come to a halt.

The music ends with a flourish.

The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 2 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes, magic clothes, and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often. Maybe we could switch." he says. "They suit you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Kylin is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.

But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.

Chapter Six

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. This will be our home until the actual Games begin. Each district has an entire floor. You simply step onto an elevator and press the number of your district. Easy enough to remember.

I've ridden the elevator a couple of times in the Justice Building back in District 2. Once to receive the medal for my father's death and then yesterday to say my final goodbyes to my friends and family. But that's a dark and creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells of sour milk. The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air. It's exhilarating and I'm tempted to ask Mileena if we can ride it again, but somehow that seems childish.

Apparently, Mileena's duties did not conclude at the station. She and Kano will be overseeing us right into the arena. In a way, that's a plus because at least she can be counted on to corral us around to places on time whereas we haven't seen Kano since he agreed to help us on the train. Probably passed out somewhere. Mileena, on the other hand, seems to be flying high. We're the first team she's ever chaperoned that made a splash at the opening ceremonies. She's complimentary about not just our costumes but how we conducted ourselves.

And, to hear her tell it, Mileena knows everyone who's anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to win us sponsors.

"I've been very mysterious, though," she says, her eyes squint half shut. "Because, of course, Kano hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Takeda sacrificed herself for his sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district."

Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Our table manners?

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal and jewel district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to diamonds! That's what they do!'" Mileena beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Kano can do that," says Mileena grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

Although lacking in many departments, Mileena has a certain determination I have to admire.

My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many automatic gadgets that I'm sure I won't have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hundred options you can choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain.

I put on a jockstrap, that's what it's called, a black one with lots of straps, and I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute. I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there's a knock on the door. Mileena's calling me to dinner.

Good. I'm starving.

Kylin, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I'm glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Kano will be joining us. A meal presided over by just Mileena and Kano is bound to be a disaster. Besides, dinner isn't really about food, it's about planning out our strategies, and Cinna and Portia have already proven how valuable they are. However, no one can even adress me without going back over that I am wearing only a jockstrap.

A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all stemmed glasses of wine. I turn it down quickly.

Kano shows up just as dinner is being served. It looks as if he's had his own stylist because he's clean and groomed and about as sober as I've ever seen him. He doesn't refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it's the first time I've ever seen him eat. Maybe he really will pull himself together long enough to help us. He's wearing a suit of black, and has actually looked decent.

Cinna and Portia seem to have a civilizing effect on Kano and Mileena. At least they're addressing each other decently. And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists' opening act. While they make small talk, I concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.

I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges awhile until it finally goes out. I have a moment of doubt. "What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" I say, looking up at the girl. "That's the last thing I wa — oh! I know you!"

I can't place a name or time to the girl's face. But I'm certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I can't pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and unease. She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.

When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.

"Don't be ridiculous, Takeda. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Mileena. "The very thought."

"What's an Avox?" I ask stupidly.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," says Kano. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Mileena. "Of course, you don't really know her."

But I do know her. And now that Kano has mentioned the word traitor I remember from where.

The disapproval is so high I could never admit it. "No, I guess not, I just —" I stammer, and the wine is not helping.

Kylin snaps his fingers. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly. She may also be the friendliest person on the planet — she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me. I have never seen the girl with the red hair smile. But I jump on Kylin's suggestion gratefully. "Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," I say.

"Something about the eyes, too," says Kylin.

The energy at the table relaxes. "Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut, Kylin."

We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies that's being broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an "Ahh!" as they show us coming out of the Remake Center.

"Whose idea was the shoulder?" asks Kano.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Kano."Very nice."

Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment.

But when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart, never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow tribute did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I know what Kano means. Presenting ourselves not as adversaries but as friends has distinguished us as much as the fiery costumes.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it,"says Kano to Kylin and I. "Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk." Kylin and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him."So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here."

He's asking for an explanation, and I'm tempted to give him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt again. If I tell him the truth about the girl, somehow that might even things up. But honestly? He's bothering me and he needs to get out of my space. I push him out of the way and go in.

When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my armor and boots from where I left them on the floor before my shower. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in trouble earlier. But I remember I'm not supposed to speak to her unless I'm giving her an order.

"Oh, sorry," I say. "I was supposed to get those back to Cinna. I'm sorry. Can you take them to him?"

She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the door.

I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my clothes. The shivering hasn't stopped. Perhaps the girl doesn't even remember me. But I know she does. You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl who can't speak.

But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing through walls and doors and bedding.

I wonder if she'll enjoy watching me die.

Chapter Seven

My slumbers are filled with disturbing dreams. The face of the redheaded girl intertwines with gory images from earlier Hunger Games, with my mother withdrawn and unreachable, with Khal emaciated and terrified. I bolt up screaming for my father to run as the mine explodes into a million deadly bits of light.

Dawn is breaking through the windows. The Capitol has a misty, haunted air. My head aches. Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the public bathroom. I arbitrarily punch buttons on the control board and end up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming hot water assault me. Then I'm deluged in lemony foam that I have to scrape off with a heavy bristled brush. Oh, well. At least my blood is flowing.

As I bathe, I hear Kano clearing his throat. I turn around, and he is standing there, wearing nothing but his boxers. Kylin stands behind him, watching me bathe myself. "Mind if we join yeh?" he asks, and I gesture for them to hop in. They do with ease. We all sit down and enjoy the water in the bath. Kano is the first to speak.

"So, uh, Kylin, how old are you?" he asked.

Kylin opened one of his previously closed eyes, looked at Kano, and said, "Twenty-one."

Kano turns to me. "You, Takeda?"

I look him in the eyes and say, "Twenty-three." I notice as a smirk comes across his face. "Well, I'm 42. Capitol's got me lookin younger than 'at, right?"

I look at him, and just raise my eyebrow and lower my head slowly, basically asking him, "Really?"

Kano laughs and says that we'd better get dressed, or Mileena'll have our heads. I get up and out, and can't help but notice Kano is sporting a massive hardon. Kylin notices too, and we start walking behind him as he starts playing with himself. I make a beeline or my room.

When I'm dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an outfit has been left for me at the front of the closet. It's a suit like the one Hanzo made for me, well, exactly as Hanzo made.

Kano didn't give us an exact time to meet for break-last and no one has contacted me this morning since the bath, but I'm hungry so I head down to the dining room, hoping there will be food. I'm not disappointed.

While the table is empty, a long board off to the side has been laid with at least twenty dishes. A young man, an Avox, stands at attention by the spread.

When I ask if I can serve myself, he nods assent. I load a plate with eggs, sausages, batter cakes covered in thick orange preserves, slices of pale purple melon.

As I gorge myself, I watch the sun rise over the Capitol. I have a second plate of hot grain smothered in beef stew. Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking off bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Kylin did on the train.

My mind wanders to my mother and Khal. They must be up. My mother getting their breakfast of mush.

Khalila milking her goat before school. Just two mornings ago, I was home. Can that be right? Yes, just two. And now how empty the house feels, even from a distance. What did they say last night about my fiery debut at the Games? Did it give them hope, or simply add to their terror when they saw the reality of twenty-four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live?

Kano and Kylin come in, bid me good morning, fill their plates. It makes me irritated that Kylin is wearing exactly the same outfit I am. I need to say something to Cinna. This twins act is going to blow up in out faces once the Games begin, especially since this outfit thing was made for me. Not for fucking him. Surely, they must know this. Then I remember Kano telling me to do exactly what the stylists tell me to do. If it was anyone but Cinna, I would ignore him. But after last night's triumph, I don't have a lot of room to criticize his choices.

I'm nervous about the training. There will be three days in which all the tributes practice together. On the last afternoon, we'll each get a chance to perform in private before the Gamemakers. The thought of meeting the other tributes face-to-face makes me feel anxious, but I'm ready. I turn the roll I have just taken from the basket over and over in my hands, but my appetite is gone.

When Kano has finished several platters of stew, he pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

"Why would you coach us separately?" I ask.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Kano.

I exchange a look with Kylin. "I don't have any secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels." I never thought about Kylin eating the squirrels I killed. Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off and frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But because town families usually eat expensive butcher meat. Beef and chicken and horse. But maybe he only knows archery, and not about my thing with my whips. He just can't know about them.

"You can coach us together," I tell Kano. Kylin nods.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do,"says Kano.

"I can't do anything," says Kylin. "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't. Takeda. I already know you're handy with a knife," says Kano.

"Yeah, I play around with Pulse Blades. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good. Is that it?" asks Kano.

I have to think about it. I've been putting food on the table for four years. That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he'd had more practice. Nor am I good as Jin, who owns his own engraved bo made for both hitting and shooting. He in fact taught me how to hunt with a bow and arrow. Then I look at Kylin, and decide, no, I don't trust him enough to tell him about the whips. But I can to Kano.

"I'm all right," I say.

"He's excellent," says Kylin. "My father buys his squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. He hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits he sells the butcher. He can even bring down deer."

This assessment of my skills from Kylin takes me totally by surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he's talking me up. I don't like this at all. "What are you doing?" I ask him suspiciously.

"What are you doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself," says Kylin.

I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. He keeps trying to talk me up like I'm depressed. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing. Don't push me up so damn high."

"Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," he shoots back.

"He can wrestle," I tell Kano. "He me in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother. Work with that."

"What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" says Kylin in disgust.

"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" I can hear my voice rising in anger. "Stop doing that!"

"But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she me to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Two will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Kylin.

"Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal.

"She said, 'He's a survivor, that one.' He is, not you are," says Kylin.

That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Kylin's eyes and know he isn't lying.

Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me." Kylin's eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs. "People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you," I say.

Kylin rolls his eyes at Kano. "He has no idea. The effect he can have." He runs his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me.

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Kylin. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

After about a minute of this, Kano says, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Takeda, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," I mutter.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Kano. "And Kylin, he's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Kano. Kylin and I nod.

"One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Kano. We both start to object, but Kano slams his hand on the table.

"Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Mileena at the elevator at ten for training." I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Kylin can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Kano, hating Kylin, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in the rain. It's such a joke! Kylin and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each other's strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities.

Because, in fact, at some point, we're going to have to knock it off and accept we're bitter adversaries. Which I'd be prepared to do right now if it wasn't for Kano's stupid instruction that we stick together in training. It's my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn't have to coach us separately. But that didn't mean I wanted to do everything with Kylin. Who, by the way, clearly doesn't want to be partnering up with me, either.

I hear Kylin's voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect she can have. Obviously meant to demean me.

Right? But a tiny part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I was appealing in some way. It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

It's almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising again. By the time I meet Mileena and Kylin at the elevator, I catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once.

The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. Although it's not yet ten, we're the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They each have a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their shirts. While someone pins the number 2 on my back, I do a quick assessment. Kylin and I are the only two dressed alike.

As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Atala steps up and begins to explain the training schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per our mentor's instructions. Some of the stations teach survival skills, others fighting techniques. We are forbidden to engage in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are assistants on hand if we want to practice with a partner.

When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill stations, my eyes can't help flitting around to the other tributes. It's the first time we've been assembled, on level ground, in our special clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family's resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I'm thin, I'm strong. With a rather large myscle mass compared to other young tributes. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me. The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout their lives for this moment.

The tributes from 1, 4, and 6 traditionally have this look about them. It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every year. In District 6, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers. And like as not, the winner will be one of them.

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center, my sparkly entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my competition. The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were. Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us, they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease.

I'm thinking that it's lucky I'm a fast runner when Kylin nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per Kano's instructions. His expression is sober. "Where would you like to start?" I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off, clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an ax.

"Suppose we tie some knots," I say.

"Right you are," says Kylin. We cross to an empty station where the trainer seems pleased to have students. You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger Games hot spot. When he realizes I know something about snares, he shows us a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg from a tree. We concentrate on this one skill for an hour until both of us have mastered it. Then we move on to camouflage. Kylin genuinely seems to enjoy this station, swirling a combination of mud and clay and berry juices around on his pale skin, weaving disguises from vines and leaves. The trainer who runs the camouflage station is full of enthusiasm at his work.

"I do the cakes," he admits to me.

"The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 3 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?"

"At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says.

He means the ones they play in the windows. Fancy cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting. They're for birthdays and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Khal always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in District 2, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

I look more critically at the design on Kylin's arm. The alternating pattern of light and dark suggests sunlight falling through the leaves in the woods. I wonder how he knows this, since I doubt he's ever been beyond the fence. Has he been able to pick this up from just that scraggly old apple tree in his backyard? Somehow the whole thing — his skill, those inaccessible cakes, the praise of the camouflage expert — annoys me. I have talents, but those talents I must hide.

"It's lovely. If only you could frost someone to death,"I say.

"Don't be so superior. You can never tell what you'll find in the arena. Say it's actually a gigantic cake —" begins Kylin.

"Say we move on," I break in.

So the next three days pass with Kylin and I going quietly from station to station. We do pick up some valuable skills, from starting fires, to knife throwing, to making shelter. Despite Kano's order to appear mediocre, Kylin excels in hand-to-hand combat, and I sweep the edible plants test without blinking an eye.

We steer clear of archery and lifting though, wanting to save those for our private sessions. However, I consult Kano about

The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day.

Twenty or so men and women dressed in robes. They sit in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, sometimes wandering about to watch us, jotting down notes, other times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them, ignoring the lot of us. But they do seem to be keeping their eye on the District 2 tributes. Several times I've looked up to find one fixated on me. They consult with the trainers during our meals as well. We see them all gathered together when we come back.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice.

Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. No one says a word to us. Kylin and I eat together, and since Kano keeps dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly conversation during the meals.

It's not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable. One day, Kylin empties our breadbasket and points out how they have been careful to include types from the districts along with the refined bread of the Capitol.

The fish-shaped loaf tinted green with seaweed from District 4. The crescent moon roll dotted with seeds from District 11. Somehow, although it's made from the same stuff, it looks a lot more appetizing than the ugly drop biscuits that are the standard fare at home.

"And there you have it," says Kylin, scooping the breads back in the basket.

"You certainly know a lot," I say.

"Only about bread," he says. "Okay, now laugh as if I've said something funny."

We both give a somewhat convincing laugh and ignore the stares from around the room.

"All right, I'll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk,"says Kylin. It's wearing us both out, Kano's direction to be friendly. Because ever since I slammed my door, there's been a chill in the air between us.

But we have our orders.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" I ask.

"No, but it sounds fascinating," says Kylin.

I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true story, in which I'd foolishly challenged a black bear over the rights to a beehive. Kylin laughs and asks questions right on cue. He's much better at this than I am.

On the second day, while we're taking a shot at spear throwing, he whispers to me. "I think we have a shadow."

I throw my spear, which I'm not too bad at actually, if I don't have to throw too far, and see the black girl from District 1 standing back a bit, watching us.

She's the twenty-year-old, the one who reminded me so of Khal, however, the black and grown-up version. She held two golden Kobu Jutsu Tonfas. She stared at us with a certain look in her eyes. I pick up another spear while Kylin throws. "I think her name's Tawna," he says softly.

"What can we do about it?" I ask him, more harshly than I intended.

"Nothing to do," he says back. "Just making conversation."

Now that I know she's there, it's hard to ignore her. She slips up and joins us at different stations.

Like me, she's clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. She can hit the target every time with her golden tonfas. She can also use them in hand to hand combat. A boss in my eyes.

Back on the District 2 floor, Kano and Mileena grill us throughout breakfast and dinner about every moment of the day. What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes size up. Cinna and Portia aren't around, so there's no one to add any sanity to the meals. Not that Kano and Mileena are fighting anymore. Instead they seem to be of one mind, determined to whip us into shape. Full of endless directions about what we should do and not do in training. Kylin is more patient, but I become fed up and surly.

When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Kylin mumbles, "Someone ought to get Kano a drink."

I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Then catch myself. It's messing with my mind too much, trying to keep straight when we're supposedly friends and when we're not. At least when we get into the arena, I'll know where we stand.

"Don't. Don't let's pretend when there's no one around."

"All right, Takeda," he says tiredly. After that, we only talk in front of people.

On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District 1 is slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time there is only Tawna and Jade, we are left alone.

We sit in silence until they summon Kylin. He rises.

"Remember what Kano said about being sure to throw the weights." The words come out of my mouth without permission.

"Thanks. I will," he says. "You ... shoot straight." I nod. I don't know why I said anything at all.

Although if I'm going to lose, I'd rather Kylin win than the others. Better for our district, for my mother and Khal.

After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium. Instantly, I know I'm in trouble.

They've been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-one other demonstrations. Had too much to wine, most of them. Want more than anything to go home.

There's nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There's a shooting range, but it's much too limited. Standard bull's-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something is wrong. The string's tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow's more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a moment, I'm humiliated, then I head back to the bull's-eye. I shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.

Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward, come up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks bursts from the fixture.

It's excellent shooting. I turn to the Gamemakers. A few are nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table.

Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don't even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I'm being upstaged by a dead pig. Ooh, this'll be fun. I pull an arrow from my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers' table. I hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back. The arrow skewers the apple in the pig's mouth and pins it to the wall behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.

"Thank you for your consideration," I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being dismissed.

 _Chapter Eight_

As I stride toward the elevator, I fling my bow to one side and my quiver to the other. I brush past the gaping Avoxes who guard the elevators and hit the number twelve button with my fist. The doors slide together and I zip upward. I can hear the others calling me from the sitting room, but I fly down the hall into my room, bolt the door, and fling myself onto my bed. Now I'm annoyed.

Now I've done it. Now I've ruined everything. If I'd stood even a ghost of chance, it vanished when I sent that arrow flying at the Gamemakers. What will they do to me now? Arrest me? Execute me? Cut my tongue and turn me into an Avox so I can wait on the future tributes of Panem? What was I thinking, shooting at the Gamemakers? Of course, I wasn't, I was shooting at that apple because I was so angry at being ignored. I wasn't trying to kill one of them. If I were, they'd be dead!

Oh, what does it matter? It's not like I was going to win the Games anyway. Who cares what they do to me? What really scares me is what they might do to my mother and Khal, how my family might suffer now because of my impulsiveness. Will they take their few belongings, or send my mother to prison and Khal to the community home, or kill them? They wouldn't kill them, would they? Why not? What do they care?

I should have stayed and apologized. Or laughed, like it was a big joke. Then maybe I would have found some leniency. But instead I stalked out of the place in the most disrespectful manner possible.

Kano and Mileena are knocking on my door. I shout for them to go away and eventually they do. It takes at least an hour for me to sulk myself out. Then I just lay curled up on the bed, stroking the silken sheets, watching the sun set over the artificial candy Capitol.

At first, I expect guards to come for me. But as time passes, it seems less likely. I calm down. They still need a girl tribute from District 2, don't they? If the Gamemakers want to punish me, they can do it publicly. Wait until I'm in the arena and sic starving wild animals on me. You can bet they'll make sure I don't have a bow and arrow to defend myself.

Before that though, they'll give me a score so low, no one in their right mind would sponsor me. That's what will happen tonight. Since the training isn't open to viewers, the Gamemakers announce a score for each player, and a rank. It gives the audience a starting place for the betting that will continue throughout the Games. The numbers, which is between one and twenty four, one being irredeemably bad and twenty-four being unattainably high, signifies the promise of the tribute. The ranks show what chances against other tributes they have.

The mark is not a guarantee of which person will win.

It's only an indication of the potential a tribute showed in training. Often, because of the variables in the actual arena, high-scoring tributes go down almost immediately. And a few years ago, the boy who won the Games only received a three. Still, the scores can help or hurt an individual tribute in terms of sponsorship. I had been hoping my shooting skills might get me a six or a seven, even if I'm not particularly powerful. Now I'm sure I'll have the lowest score of the twenty-four. If no one sponsors me, my odds of staying alive decrease to almost zero.

When Mileena taps on the door to call me to dinner, I decide I may as well go. The scores will be televised tonight. It's not like I can hide what happened forever. Once again, I simply pull on a jockstrap and head out.

Everyone's waiting at the table, even Cinna and Portia. I wish the stylists hadn't shown up because for some reason, I don't like the idea of disappointing them. It's as if I've thrown away all the good work they did on the opening ceremonies without a thought. I avoid looking at anyone as I take tiny spoonfuls of fish soup.

The adults begin some chitchat about the weather forecast, and I let my eyes meet Kylin's. He raises his eyebrows. A question. What happened? I just give my head a small shake. Then, as they're serving the main course, I hear Kano say, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?"

Kylin jumps in. "I don't know that it mattered. By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

That makes me feel a bit better. It's not like Kylin attacked the Gamemakers, but at least he was provoked, too.

"And you, babe?" says Kano.

Somehow Kano calling me babe ticks me off enough that I'm at least able to speak. "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

Everyone stops eating. "You what?" The horror in Mileena's voice confirms my worse suspicions.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Kylin said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just ... I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" I say defiantly.

"And what did they say?" says Cinna carefully.

"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that," I say.

"Without being dismissed?" gasps Mileena.

"I dismissed myself," I said. I remember how I promised Khal that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of coal has dropped on me.

"Well, that's that," says Kano. Then he butters a roll.

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" I ask.

"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage,"says Kano.

"What about my family?" I say. "Will they punish them?"

"Don't think so. Wouldn't make much sense. See they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's secret, so it'd be a waste of effort," says Kano. "More likely they'll make your life hell in the arena."

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us any way," says Kylin.

"Very true," says Kano. And I realize the impossible has happened. They have actually cheered me up. Kano picks up a pork chop with his fingers, which makes Mileena frown, and dunks it in his wine. He rips off a hunk of meat and starts to chuckle."What were their faces like?" I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them." An image pops into my mind. "One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch."

Kano guffaws and we all start laughing except Mileena, although even she is suppressing a smile. "Well, it serves them right. It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Two is no excuse to ignore you." Then her eyes dart around as if she's said something totally outrageous."I'm sorry, but that's what I think," she says to no one in particular.

"I'll get a very bad score," I say. "Probably 20 in rank, and that's if I'm lucky."

"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy," said Portia.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," says Kylin. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot."

I grin at him and realize that I'm starving. I cut off a piece of pork, dunk it in mashed potatoes, and start eating. It's okay. My family is safe. And if they are safe, no real harm has been done.

After dinner, we go to sitting room to watch the scores announced on television. First they show a photo of the tribute, then flash their score and rank below it. The Career Tributes naturally get in the eight-to-ten range. Most of the other players average a seventeen. Surprisingly, Tanya comes up with a eighteen, and an 11 in rank. I don't know what she showed the judges, but she's so tiny it must have been impressive.

District 2 comes up, as usual. Kylin pulls an eighteen and a 7, so at least a couple of the Gamemakers must have been watching him. I dig my fingernails into my palms as my face comes up, expecting the worst.

Then they're flashing the number twenty-one on the screen.

And a 5!

Mileena lets out a squeal, and everybody is slapping me on the back and cheering and congratulating me. But it doesn't seem real.

"There must be a mistake. How ... how could that happen?" I ask Kano.

"Guess they liked your temper," he says. "They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat."

"Takeda, the boy who is now on fire," says Cinna and gives me a hug. "Oh, wait until you see your interview dress." "More lights?" I ask. "Of a sort," he says mischievously.

Kylin and I congratulate each other, another awkward moment. We've both done well, but what does that mean for the other? I escape to my room as quickly as possible and burrow down under the covers. The stress of the day, particularly the sulking, has worn me out. I drift off, reprieved, relieved, and with the number twenty-one still flashing behind my eyelids.

At dawn, I lie in bed for a while, watching the sun come up on a beautiful morning. It's Sunday. A day off at home. I wonder if Jin is in the woods yet.

Usually we devote all of Sunday to stocking up for the week. Rising early, hunting and gathering, then trading at the Hob. I think of Jin without me. Both of us can hunt alone, but we're better as a pair.

Particularly if we're trying for bigger game. But also in the littler things, having a partner lightened the load, could even make the arduous task of filling my family's table enjoyable.

Being out in the woods with Jin ... sometimes I was actually happy.

I call him my friend, but in the last year it's seemed too casual a word for what Jin is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don't want that. I don't want him in the arena where he'd be dead in a few days. I just ... I just miss him. And I hate being so alone.

Does he miss me? He must.

I think of the twenty-one flashing under my name last night. I know exactly what he'd say to me. "Well, there's some room for improvement there." And then he'd give me a smile and I'd return it without hesitating now.

I can't help comparing what I have with Jin to what I'm pretending to have with Kylin. How I never question Jin's motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter's. It's not a fair comparison really. Jin and I were thrown together by a mutual need to survive.

Kylin and I know the other's survival means our own death. How do you sidestep that?

Mileena's knocking at the door, reminding me there's another "big, big, big day!" ahead. Tomorrow night will be our televised interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands full readying us for that.

I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more careful about the buttons I hit, and head down to the dining room. Kylin, Mileena, and Kano are huddled around the table talking in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I join them.

The stew's made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I've shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one's talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. "So, what's going on?

You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," says Kano.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and cat at the same time," I say.

"Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says Kano.

"What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember.

Kano shrugs. "Kylin has asked to be coached separately."

 _Chapter Nine_

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first. Between Kylin and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We're tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Kano know my hunting skills ... was there some part of me that couldn't help trusting him?

On the other hand, I'm relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed.

And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Kylin's decision — and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training — I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.

"Good," I say. "So what's the schedule?"

"You'll each have four hours with Mileena for presentation and four with me for content," says Kano. "You start with Mileena, Takeda." I can't imagine what Mileena will have to teach me that could take four hours, but she's got me working down to the last minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a big flamboyantly gold suit gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I'll he wearing for the actual interview, and instructs me on walking. The shoes are the worst part. I've never worn shoes with heels and can't get used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of my feet. It makes no sense how Capitol guys can do it.

But Mileena runs around in them full-time, and I'm determined that if she can do it, so can I. When I finally conquer walking, there's still sitting, posture — apparently I have a tendency to duck my head — eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling is mostly about smiling more. Mileena makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are twitching from overuse.

"Well, that's the best I can do," Mileena says with a sigh. "Just remember, Takeda, you want the audience to like you."

"And you don't think they will?" I ask.

"Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don't you save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among friends," says Mileena.

"They're betting on how long I'll live!" I burst out."They're not my friends!"

"Well, try and pretend!" snaps Mileena. Then she composes herself and beams at me. "See, like this. I'm smiling at you even though you're aggravating me."

"Yes, it feels very convincing," I say. "I'm going to eat." 1 kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room.

Kylin and Kano seem in pretty good moods, so I'm thinking the content session should be an improvement over the morning. I couldn't be more wrong. After lunch, Kano takes me into the sitting room, directs me to the couch, and then just frowns at me for a while.

"What?" I finally ask.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says."How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you're shining like a star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made you look unforgettable. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors," says Kano.

Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know there's truth to what he's saying. If you appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.

"What's Kylin's approach? Or am I not allowed to ask? Oh, and are my whips ready?" I say.

"Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor naturally," says Kano. "Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile." He thinks a second. "Bladed whips, yeah? They're comin' in."

"I do not!" I say.

"Please. I don't know where you pulled that cheery, wavy fool on the chariot from, but I haven't seen him before or since," says Kano.

"And you've given me so many reasons to be cheery," I counter.

"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you. So pretend I'm the audience," says Kano. "Delight me."

"Fine!" I snarl. Kano takes the role of the interviewer and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion. But I can't. I'm too angry with Kano for what he said and that I even have to answer the questions. All I can think is how unjust the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate? The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to rise to the surface, until I'm literally spitting out answers at him.

"All right, enough," he says. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Takeda."

"But I don't want them to! They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!" I say.

"Then lie! Make something up!" says Kano.

"I'm not good at lying," I say.

"Well, you better learn fast. You've got about as much charm as a dead slug," says Kano.

Kano must know he's been too harsh because his voice softens. "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."

"Humble," I echo.

"That you can't believe a little boy from District Two has done this well. The whole thing's been more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna's clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."

The next hours are agonizing. At once, it's clear I cannot gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don't have the arrogance. Apparently, I'm too "vulnerable" for ferocity. I'm not witty. Funny. Sexy, though I'd give a few a run for their money. Or mysterious.

By the end of the session, I am no one at all.

Kano started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge has crept into his voice. "I give up, babe. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them." I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then taking out my anger at Kano, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room. When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down my bed, her eyes widen at the mess. "Just leave it!" I yell at her. "Just leave it alone!"

I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that call me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods.

But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door behind her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood from a broken plate off my hands. Why is she doing this? Why am I letting her?

"I should have tried to save you," I whisper.

She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to stand by? That she has forgiven me?

"No, it was wrong," I say.

She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my chest. I think she means that I would just have ended up an Avox, too. Probably would have. An Avox or dead.

I spend the next hour helping the redheaded girl clean the room. When all the garbage has been dropped down a disposal and the food cleaned away, she turns down my bed. I crawl in between the sheets like a five-year-old and let her tuck me in. Then she goes.

In the morning, it's not the girl but my prep team who are hanging over me. My lessons with Mileena and Kano are over. This day belongs to Cinna. He's my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes out of my mouth.

The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then Venia goes to work on my hair, spraying gunk and stuff all up in that, putting my fabric back on it. They erase my face with a layer of pale up and draw my features back out. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that makes me shimmer in gold dust.

Then Cinna enters with what I assume is my dress up, but I can't really see it because it's covered. "Close your eyes," he orders.

I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I clutch Octavia's hand as I blindly step into my shoes, glad to find they are at least two inches lower than the pair Mileena had me practice in. There's some adjusting and fidgeting. Then silence.

"Can I open my eyes?" I ask.

"Yes," says Cinna. "Open them."

The creature standing before me in the full-length mirror has come from another world. Where skin shimmers and eyes flash and apparently they make their clothes from jewels. Because my suit, oh, my suit is entirely covered in reflective precious gems, red and yellow and white with bits of blue that accent the tips of the flame design. The slightest movement gives the impression I am engulfed in tongues of fire.

I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.

For a while, we all just stare at me. "Oh, Cinna," I finally whisper. "Thank you."

"Turn for me," he says. I hold out my arms and spin in a circle. The prep team screams in admiration.

Cinna dismisses the team and has me move around in the dress and shoes, which are infinitely more manageable than Mileena's.

"So, all ready for the interview then?" asks Cinna. I can see by his expression that he's been talking to Kano. That he knows how dreadful I am.

"I'm awful. Kano called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn't do it. I just can't be one of those people he wants me to be," I say.

Cinna thinks about this a moment. "Why don't you just be yourself?"

"Myself? That's no good, either. Kano says I'm sullen and hostile," I say.

"Well, you are ... around Kano," says Cinna with a grin. "I don't find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can't stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit." My spirit. This is a new thought. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I'm a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It's not as if I'm never friendly. Okay, maybe I don't go around loving everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people.

Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. "Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you're addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?" asks Cinna.

"Jin," I say instantly. "Only it doesn't make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Jin those things about me. He already knows them."

"What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?" asks Cinna.

Of all the people I've met since I left home, Cinna is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn't disappointed me yet. "I think so, but —"

"I'll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You'll be able to look right at me. When you're asked a question, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible," says Cinna.

"Even if what I think is horrible?" I ask. Because it might be, really.

"Especially if what you think is horrible," says Cinna."You'll try it?"

I nod. It's a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at.

Too soon it's time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center.

Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I'm in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem.

As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. "Cinna..." I'm completely overcome with stage fright.

"Remember, they already love you," he says gently. "Just be yourself."

We meet up with the rest of the District 2 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Kylin looks striking in a black suit. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically. Kano and Mileena are all fancied up for the occasion. I avoid Kano, but accept Mileena's compliments. Mileena can be tiresome and clueless, but she's not destructive like Kano.

When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being lined up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc throughout the interviews. I'll be last, or second to last since the girl tribute precedes the boy from each district. How I wish I could be first and get the whole thing out of the way! Now I'll have to listen to how witty, funny, humble, fierce, and charming everybody else is before I go up. Plus, the audience will start to get bored, just as the Gamemakers did.

And I can't exactly shoot an arrow into the crowd to get their attention.

Right before we parade onto the stage, Kano comes up behind Kylin and me and growls, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it." What? I thought we abandoned that when Kylin asked for separate coaching. But I guess that was a private, not a public thing. Anyway, there's not much chance for interaction now, as we walk single-file to our seats and take our places.

Just stepping on the stage makes my breathing rapid and shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples. It's a relief to get to my chair, because between the heels and my legs shaking, I'm afraid I'll trip. Although evening is falling, the City Circle is brighter than a summer's day. An elevated seating unit has been set up for prestigious guests, with the stylists commanding the front row. The cameras will turn to them when the crowd is reacting to their handiwork. A large balcony off a building to the right has been reserved for the Gamemakers. Television crews have claimed most of the other balconies. But the City Circle and the avenues that feed into it are completely packed with people. Standing room only.

At homes and community halls around the country, every television set is turned on. Every citizen of Panem is tuned in. There will be no blackouts tonight.

John Carlton, or Johnny Cage, the man who has hosted the interviews for more than forty years, and thankfully, our mayor, bounces onto the stage. It's a little scary because his appearance has been virtually unchanged during all that time. Same face under a coating of pure white up. Same hairstyle that he dyes a different color for each Hunger Games. Same ceremonial suit. They do surgery in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and thinner. In District 2, looking old is something of an achievement since so many people die early. You see an elderly person you want to congratulate them on their longevity, ask the secret of survival. A plump person is envied because they aren't scraping by like the majority of us. But here it is different. Wrinkles aren't desirable. A round belly isn't a sign of success.

This year, Johnny's hair is white and his eyelids and lips are coated in the same hue. He looks freakish but less frightening than he did last year when his color was crimson and he seemed to be bleeding. Johnny tells a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down to business.

The girl tribute from District 1, Jade, looking provocative in a see-through green gown, steps up the center of the stage to join Johnny for her interview. You can tell her mentor didn't have any trouble coming up with an angle for her. With that flowing brown hair, emerald green eyes, her body tall and lush ... she's sexy all the way.

Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off and the next tribute is up. I'll say this for Johnny, he really does his best to make the tributes shine. He's friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at me jokes, and can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he reacts.

I sit like a lady, the way Mileena showed me, as the districts slip by. 12, 11, 10. Everyone seems to be playing up some angle. The monstrous boy from District 2, Raiden, is a ruthless killing machine. The fox-faced girl from District 10, Kira, sly and elusive. I spotted Cinna as soon as he took his place, but even his presence cannot relax me. 9, 8, 7, 6. Then the Kytiin come up.

Now, the Kytiin aren't human, just humanoid, but they owned their own District when the rebellions happened. They helped the others survive, so the must do the Games too. However, lots of them win, mainly because they are essentially a collection of bugs, so they know nature, plus, their blood is slightly toxic. Godmodded.

My palms are sweating like crazy, but the jeweled suit isn't absorbent and they skid right of if I try to dry them.

D'Vorah, the first Kytiin, who is dressed in a gossamer gown complete with wings, flutters her way to Johnny. A hush falls over the crowd at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute. Johnny's very sweet with her, complimenting her nineteen in training, an excellent score for one so small. When he asks her what her greatest strength in the arena will be, she doesn't hesitate. "I can feast on other tributes to maintain health," she says. "My children can go inside. Burrow deep. Inside them they will grow. Knaw their innards. It will be easy to win. So never think I am not to win."

"I wouldn't in a million years," says Johnny encouragingly.

They bring out Skarlet from District Three, who is a small, unspoken girl. Rumors are she can control blood, and can turn into the stuff, as well as power herself with others'. If so, she will be a badass. She scored eighteen in score, and 9 in rank.

The boy tribute from District 3, Reiko, has the same light skin as Skarlet, but the resemblance stops there. He's one of the giants, probably six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, but I noticed he rejected the invitations from the Career Tributes to join their crowd. Instead he's been very solitary, speaking to no one, showing little interest in training. Even so, he scored a twenty and a 3 and it's not hard to imagine he impressed the Gamemakers. He ignores Johnny's attempts at banter and answers with a yes or no or just remains silent. He wears nothing but a loincloth, showing off his muscles and abs, and he looks really fit for his age of 43.

If only I was his size, I could get away with sullen and hostile and it would be just fine! I bet half the sponsors are at least considering him. If I had any money, I'd bet on him myself.

And then they're calling Takeda Takahashi, and I feel myself, as if in a dream, standing and making my way center stage. I shake Johnny's outstretched hand, and he has the good grace not to immediately wipe his off on his suit.

"So, Takeda, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Two. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" asks Johnny.

What? What did he say? It's as if the words make no sense.

My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. I desperately find Cinna in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the words coming from his lips. "What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" I rack my brain for something that made me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.

"The lamb stew," I get out.

Johnny laughs, and vaguely I realize some of the audience has joined in.

"The one with the dried plums?" asks Johnny. I nod.

"Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show, does it?" They shout reassurances to him and applaud. This is what I mean about Johnny.

He tries to help you out.

"Now, Takeda," he says confidentially, "When you me out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"

Cinna raises one eyebrow at me. Be honest. "You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?" I ask.

Big laugh. A real one from the audience.

"Yes. Start then," says Johnny.

Cinna, my friend, I should tell him anyway."I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this, either." I lift up my jacket to spread it out. "I mean, look at it!" As the audience oohs and ahs, I see Cinna make the tiniest circular motion with his finger. But I know what he's saying. Twirl for me.

I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediate.

"Oh, do that again!" says Johnny, and so I lift up my arms and spin around and around letting the ribbons hidden in plain sight but blended, ribbons that glow and sparle red, orange, and yellow light fly out, letting them engulf me in flames. The audience breaks into cheers. When I stop, I clutch Johnny's arm.

"Don't stop!" he says.

"I have to, I'm dizzy!" I'm also giggling, which I think I've done maybe never in my lifetime. But the nerves and the spinning have gotten to me.

Johnny wraps a protective arm around me. "Don't worry, I've got you. Can't have you following in your mentor's footsteps."

Everyone's hooting as the cameras find Kano, who is by now famous for his head dive at the reaping, and he waves them away good-naturedly and points back to me.

"It's all right," Johnny reassures the crowd. "She's safe with me. So, how about that training score. Twony-one," he says in an Asian accent, gaining a few laughs from the crowd. "Give us a hint what happened in there." I glance at the Gamemakers on the balcony and bite my lip. "Um ... all I can say, is I think it was a first." The cameras are right on the Gamemakers, who are chuckling and nodding.

"You're killing us," says Johnny as if in actual pain. "Details. Details."

I address the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"

The Gamemaker who fell in the punch bowl shouts out, "He's not!"

"Thank you," I say. "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," says Johnny. His mood is quieter now. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

No. No, not all of you. But maybe Cinna. I don't think I'm imagining the sadness on his face. "Her name's Khal. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."

You could hear a pin drop in the City Circle now.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" Johnny asks.

Be honest. Be honest. I swallow hard. "She asked me to try really hard to win." The audience is frozen, hanging on my every word.

"And what did you say?" prompts Johnny gently.

But instead of warmth, I feel an icy rigidity take over my body. My muscles tense as they do before a kill.

When I speak, my voice seems to have dropped an octave. "I swore I would."

"I bet you did," says Johnny, giving me a squeeze. The buzzer goes off. "Sorry we're out of time. Best of luck, Takeda Takahashi, tribute from District Twelve." The applause continues long after I'm seated. I look to Cinna for reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Kylin's interview.

He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Johnny, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Johnny asks him if he has a lover back home.

Kylin hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Johnny.

Kylin sighs. "Well, there is this one... um... person. I've had a crush on them ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure he didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to. And by the sounds of it, homosexual. Homosexuality was quite rampant in the Capitol, so no one cared. If anything, admitting it got him more points.

"He straight?" asks Johnny.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like him, same for girls," says Kylin.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. He can't turn you down then, eh?" says Johnny encouragingly.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning... won't help in my case," says Kylin.

"Why ever not?" says Johnny, mystified.

Kylin blushes beet red and stammersout. "Because... because... he me here with me."


	2. Chapter 2

PART II

"THE GAMES"

Chapter Ten

For a moment, the cameras hold on Kylin's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Johnny, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries.

"It's not good," agrees Kylin.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young man," says Johnny. "She didn't know?"

Kylin shakes his head. "Not until now." I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable.

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Johnny asks the audience. The crowd screams assent."Sadly, rules are rules, and Takeda Takahashi's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Kylin Jameson, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours." The roar of the crowdis deafening. Kylin has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out a quiet "Thank you" and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Kylin and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.

But I know better.

After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Kylin.

The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Kylin has only just stepped from his car when I slam my fist into his face, hooking his haw. He loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Kylin lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his hands.

"What was that for?" he says, aghast.

"You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" I shout at him.

Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Mileena, Kano, Cinna, and Portia.

"What's going on?" says Mileena, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," says Kylin as Mileena and Cinna help him up.

Kano turns on me. "Shoved him?"

"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" I answer.

"It was my idea," says Kylin, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. "Kano just helped me with it."

"Yes, Kano is very helpful. To you!" I say.

"You are a fool," Kano says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!" I say.

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed gay lovers from District Two!" says Kano.

"But we're not star-crossed lovers! And I don't like guys," I say.

Kano grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the girls back home fall longingly at your feet. Even the boys check you out. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head.

Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. "He's right, Takeda."

I don't know what to think. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid."

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia.

"He's just worried about his boyfriend," says Kylin gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn. "But he doesn't like guys."

My cheeks burn again at the thought of Jin. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Whatever," says Kylin. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?" The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I'm torn now between thinking I've been used and thinking I've been given an edge. Kano is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Giggling. The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Khal.

Compare that with Reiko, his silent, deadly power, and I'm forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable.

No, not entirely forgettable, I have my 21 in training.

But now Kylin has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers.

And if the audience really thinks we're in love... as gay lovers ... I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Kano is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I'm worried that I didn't react properly.

"After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" I ask.

"I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush."

They others me in, agreeing.

"You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," says Kano.

I'm embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Kylin. "I'm sorry I shoved you."

"Doesn't matter," he shrugs. "Although it's technically illegal."

"Are your hands okay?" I ask.

"They'll be all right," he says.

In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft in from the dining room. "Come on, let's eat," says Kano. We all follow him to the table and take our places. But then Kylin is bleeding too heavily, and Portia leads him off for medical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soup without them. By the time we've finished, they're back. Kylin's hands are wrapped in bandages. I can't help feeling guilty. Tomorrow we will be in the arena.

He has done me a favor and I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?

After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room.

I seem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress, although the others assure me I am charming.

Kylin actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna's hands, desirable by Kylin's confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.

When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don't start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Kylin and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year's Games.

I know Kano and Mileena will not be going with us.

As soon as they leave here, they'll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here.

Mileena takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it's Mileena and she's apparently required by law to say something awful, she adds, "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!" Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement of her fortunes.

Kano crosses his arms and looks us both over.

"Any final words of advice?" asks Kylin.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. Neither of you is up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water," he says. "Got it?"

"And after that?" I ask.

"Stay alive," says Kano. It's the same advice he gave us on the train, but he's not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?

When I head to my room, Kylin lingers to talk to Portia. I'm glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out.

But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.

I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the up, the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the design-team's efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Takeda, the man on fire.

Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to come.

I just stay comepletely nude and climb into bed.

It takes me about five seconds to realize I'll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death.

It's no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I can't stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I'll be thrown into.

Desert? Swamp? A frigid wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me some means of concealment and food and shelter, Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them. But what will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hidden to liven up the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes ...

The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me. Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing too short. My room feels like a prison cell. If I don't get air soon, I'm going to start to throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. It's not only unlocked but ajar. Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn't matter. The energy field enclosing the roof prevents any desperate form of escape. And I'm not looking to escape, only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and the moon on the last night that no one will be hunting me.

The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reach its tiled surface I see his silhouette, black against the lights that shine endlessly in the Capitol.

There's quite a commotion going on down in the streets, music and singing and car horns, none of which I could hear through the thick glass window panels in my room. I look over the force field, completely naked, feeling oh so free. Except I'm caged. I'm stuck competing in this hell hole of a Capitol, but Kano tells me tomorrow I will have a surprise as I start to leave for the Games. I stumble back to my room, going to sleep easily.

...

I don't see Kylin in the morning. Cinna comes to me before dawn, gives me a simple shift to wear, and guides me to the roof. My final dressing and preparations will be alone in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of thin air, just like the one did in the woods the day I saw the redheaded Avox girl captured, and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs and instantly it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while I'm lifted safely inside.

I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuck when a woman in a white coat approaches me carrying a syringe. "This is just your tracker, Takeda. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.

Still? I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling the sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside of my forearm. Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereabouts in the arena. Wouldn't want to lose a tribute.

As soon as the tracker's in place, the ladder releases me. The woman disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the roof, An Avox boy comes in and directs us to a room where breakfast has been laid out. Despite the tension in my stomach, I eat as much as I can, although none of the delectable food makes any impression on me. I'm so nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we sail over the city and then to the wilderness beyond. This is what birds see.

Only they're free and safe. The very opposite of me.

The ride lasts about half an hour before the windows black out, suggesting that we're nearing the arena.

The hovercraft lands and Cinna and I go back to the ladder, only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination, a chamber for my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In the districts, it's referred to as the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter.

Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute to use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation.

Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments. They say the food is excellent.

I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth. Cinna does my hair. Then the clothes arrive, and I love it. It is a suit if armor, with special wraps and straps and the like. But the best part? My whips are on it. They are coiled around a big wheel on my back, and flow through the suit of armor, more than twenty feet of whips. (Default). nearly Cinna has had no say in my outfit, but says that he and Kano had it ordered from a sponsor.

The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I could have hoped for. Soft leather is on the insides of this armor, making it formfit to my body. The shoes have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads though. Good for running.

I think I'm finished when Cinna pulls the gold dragon pin from his pocket. I had completely forgotten about it.

"Where did you get that?" I ask.

"Off the outfit you wore on the train," he says. I remember now taking it off my mother's suit, pinning it to the shirt. "It's your district token, right?" I nod and he fastens it on my shirt. "There, you're all set. Move around. Make sure everything feels comfortable." I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. "Yes, it's fine. Fits perfectly."

"Then there's nothing to do but wait for the call," says Cinna. "Unless you think you could eat any more?" I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait on a couch.

Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour.

Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.

"Do you want to talk, Takeda?" Cinna asks.

I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. And this is how we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it's time to prepare for launch.

Still clenching one of Cinna's hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. "Remember what Kano said. Run, find water. The rest will follow," he says. I nod. "And remember this. I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you."

"Truly?" I whisper.

"Truly," says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead, stirring feelings inside me. "Good luck, man on fire." And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high.

I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder begins to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I'm in darkness and then I can feel the metal plate pushing me out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by the bright sunlight and I'm conscious only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell of pine trees.

Then I hear the legendary announcer, Kotal Kahn, as his voice booms all around me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

Chapter Eleven

Sixty seconds. That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things that will give us life and death here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a three-foot square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tributes. Which I have been instructed not to do.

We're on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard-packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney woods. This is where Kano would want me to go. Immediately.

I hear his instructions in my head. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water." But it's tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting there before me. And I know that if I don't get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That's mine, I think. It's meant for me.

I'm fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school although a couple can beat me in distance races. But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how quickly can I get out of there? By the time I've scrambled up the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick off, but say there's a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down with the spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.

Still, I won't be the only target. I'm betting many of the other tributes would pass up a smaller boy, even one who scored a 21 in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries, like the twenty built guys.

Kano has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he'd tell me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that's the very weapon that might be my salvation. And I only see one bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but toward the pile, toward the bow. When suddenly I notice Kylin, he's about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he's looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out.

And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. I lost my bow and arrow! But then again, I have my whips.

My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I'm so angry with Kylin for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because I can't stand leaving with virtually nothing.

A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. I stagger back, repulsed by the warm, sticky spray.

Then the boy slips to the ground. That's when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the green girl from District 1, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a glaive. I've seen her throw in training. She never misses. And I'm her next target.

All the general fear I've been feeling condenses into at immediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she'll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.

At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn. Several lie dead already on the ground. Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or into the void opposite me. I continue running until the woods have hidden me from the other tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while. For the next few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking, putting as much distance as I can between myself and my competitors. I free the knife — it's a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle, which will make it handy for sawing through things — and slide it into my belt. I don't dare stop to examine the contents of the pack yet. I just keep moving, pausing only to check for pursuers.

I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the woods. But I will need water. That was Kano's second instruction, and since I sort of botched the first, I keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it. No luck.

The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed with a variety of trees, some I recognize, some completely foreign to me. At one point, I hear a noise and pull my knife, thinking I may have to defend myself, but I've only startled a rabbit. "Good to see you," I whisper. If there's one rabbit, there could be hundreds just waiting to be snared.

The ground slopes down. I don't particularly like this. Valleys make me feel trapped. I want to be high, like in the hills around DistriKylin, where I can see my enemies approaching. But I have no choice but to keep going.

Funny though, I don't feel too bad. The days of gorging myself have paid off. I've got staying power even though I'm short on sleep. Being in the woods is rejuvenating. I'm glad for the solitude, even though it's an illusion, because I'm probably on-screen right now. Not consistently, but off and on. There are so many deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking through the woods isn't much to look at. But they'll show me enough to let people know I'm alive, uninjured and on the move. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when the initial casualties come in. But that can't compare to what happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players.

It's late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons.

Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. And seeing as there were no "Fatalities," to be heard, no one had had to die that way. Fatalities are only performed after a long period of combat, which was civilized fighting. After winning, the winner would have the choice to "Finish" their opponent, which everyone did, I mean, one of the times someone didn't, just as the final four were getting together to leave, the person that wasn't finished came out and killed the person that saved him from death.

They never collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day, they don't even fire the cannons until the initial fighting's over because it's too hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to pause, panting, as I count the shots.

One ... two ... three ... on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in all. Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the dried blood the boy from District 9 coughed into my face. He's gone, certainly. I wonder about Kylin. Has he lasted through the day?

I'll know in a few hours. When they project the dead's images into the sky for the rest of us to see.

All of a sudden, I'm overwhelmed by the thought that Kylin may be already lost, bled white, collected, and in the process of being transported back to the Capitol to be cleaned up, redressed, and shipped in a simple wooden box back to District 2. No longer here. Heading home. I try hard to remember if I saw him once the action started. But the last image I can conjure up is Kylin shaking his head as the gong rang out.

Maybe it's better, if he's gone already. He had no confidence he could win. And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him. Maybe it's better if he's out of this for good.

I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go through it anyway before night falls. See what I have to work with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel it's sturdily made although a rather unfortunate color. This orange will practically glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow.

I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this moment, is water. Kano's directive to immediately find water was not arbitrary. I won't last long without it. For a few days, I'll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration, but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week, tops. I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I do this at home, but there are always streams to drink from, or snow to melt if it should come to it.

As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake.

The one I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena? That way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey from where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink.

And then, even if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career Tributes. I'm about to panic when I remember the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too. I just have to find out where.

Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too thin to offer much concealment. The layer of pine needles that muffles my footsteps also makes tracking animals harder when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless.

I'm hungry, too, but I don't dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef yet. Instead, I take my knife and go to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer bark and scraping off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew the stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the world, it's a little hard to choke down. But I've eaten plenty of pine in my life. I'll adjust quickly.

In another hour, it's clear I've got to find a place to camp. Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I'll be competing with natural predators for the rabbits. As to whether I'll be viewed as a source of food, it's too soon to tell. There could be any number of animals stalking me at this moment.

But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority. I'm sure many will continue hunting through the night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and weapons they're itching to use. I can only hope I've traveled far and fast enough to be out of range.

Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up snares in the brush. I know it's risky to be setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I can't set snares on the run. Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp.

I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively comfortable manner. I place my backpack in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refasten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won't go crashing to the ground.

I'm small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in getting the backpack, I know now it was the right choice.

This sleeping bag, radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable. I'm sure there are several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is how to stay warm whereas I may actually be able to get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn't so thirsty ...

Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds the death recap. Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be floating in the sky. I'm actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that's transported by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be watching full coverage of each and every killing, but that's thought to give an unfair advantage to the living tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my secret would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we see are the same photographs they showed when they televised our training scores. Simple head shots. But now instead of scores they post only district numbers.

I take a deep breath as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one on my fingers.

The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career Tributes from 1 have survived, but it also means Kylin has too. No surprise there. Then the second girl from 4, so that means Cassie has survived. I didn't expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The girl from District 5 ... I guess the girl couldn't make . Boy tributes from 6 and 7. D'Vorah and Kung Lao are alive, but Liu Kang and Ash'Ram died. And to think, Liu Kang got the number one rank. Both from 8. Boy from 9. Yes, there's the boy who I fought for the backpack. There's the boy from District 10. An elderly man from 11, Shang Tsung, and a man from 12, Fujin. That's it.

The Capitol seal is back with a final musical flourish.

Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.

I'm relieved Kylin's alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Khal the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Kylin.

The gratitude that he gave me an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment in this arena.

Eleven dead, but none from District 2. I try to work out who is left. Four Career Tributes to face. Reiko and Tanya. That makes ten of us. The other three I'll figure out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.

I haven't really slept in two days, and then there's been the long day's journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think is it's lucky I don't snore... .

Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me.

How long have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What's going on? This is not the sound of a branch under someone's foot, but the sharp crack of one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. For a few minutes, there's nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can't make out more than that.

I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire at just at nightfall would have been one thing.

Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of supplies, they couldn't possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when they've probably been looking in the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, "Come and get me!"

And here I am a stone's throw from the biggest idiot in the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my general location has just been broadcast to any killer who cares. I mean, I know it's cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it out until dawn!

I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won't have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person's a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn't have much in the way of weapons while I've got this excellent knife.

The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn approaching. I'm beginning to think we — meaning the person whose death I'm now devising and me — we might actually have gone unnoticed.

Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They're on her before she can escape. I know it's a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows.

Then there's laughter and congratulations from several voices. Someone cries out, "Twelve down and eight to go!" which gets a round of appreciative hoots.

So they're fighting in a pack. I'm not really surprised.

Often alliances are formed in the early stages of the Games. The strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. I don't have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It'll be the remaining Career Tributes from Districts 1, 4, and 6.

One boy and three girls. The ones who lunched together.

For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I can tell by their comments they've found nothing good. I wonder if the victim is Tanya but quickly dismiss the thought. She's much too bright to be building a fire like that.

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking." I'm almost certain that's the brutish boy from District 6. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I'm here. How could they? And I'm well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute.

But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe.

Have they spotted me? No, not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.

"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"

"I'd say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."

"Unless she isn't dead."

"She's dead. I stuck her myself."

"Then where's the cannon?"

"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done."

"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice."

"I said she's dead!"

An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. "We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Kylin.

Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this ... this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 2 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they're the Capitol's lapdogs.

Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they're saying about him back home now. And Kylin had the gall to talk to me about disgrace?

Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last.

I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don't kill him first myself.

The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices.

"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"

"Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife."

Is he? That's news. What a lot of interesting things I'm learning about my friend Kylin today.

"Besides, he's our best chance of finding him." It takes me a moment to register that the "him" they're referring to is me.

"Why? You think he bought into that sappy romance stuff?"

"He might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me.

Every time I think about him spinning around in that gay ass suit, I want to puke."

"Wish we knew how he got that eleven."

"Bet you Lover Boy knows."

The sound of Kylin returning silences them.

"Was she dead?" asks the girl from District 1.

"No. But she is now," says Kylin. Just then, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?"

The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I've heard. Not only is Kylin with the Careers, he's helping them find me.

The simpleminded boy who has to be taken seriously because of his twenty one. Because he can use a bow and arrow. Which Kylin knows better than anyone.

But he hasn't told them yet. Is he saving that information because he knows it's all that keeps him alive? Is he still pretending to love me for the audience? What is going on in his head?

Suddenly, the birds fall silent. Then one gives a high-pitched warning call. A single note. Just like the one Jin and I heard when the redheaded Avox girl was caught. High above the dying campfire a hovercraft materializes. A set of huge metal teeth drops down.

Slowly, gently, the dead tribute girl is lifted into the hovercraft. Then it vanishes. The birds resume their song.

"Move," I whisper to myself. I wriggle out of my sleeping bag, roll it up, and place it in the pack. I take a deep breath. While I've been concealed by darkness and the sleeping bag and the willow branches, it has probably been difficult for the cameras to get a good shot of me. I know they must be tracking me now though. The minute I hit the ground, I'm guaranteed a close-up.

The audience will have been beside themselves, knowing I was in the tree, that I overheard the Careers talking, that I discovered Kylin was with them. Until I work out exactly how I want to play that, I'd better at least act on top of things. Not perplexed.

Certainly not confused or frightened.

No, I need to look one step ahead of the game.

So as I slide out of the foliage and into the dawn light, I pause a second, giving the cameras time to lock on me. Then I cock my head slightly to the side and give a knowing smile. There! Let them figure out what that means!

I'm about to take off when I think of my snares.

Maybe it's imprudent to check them with the others so close. But have to. Too many years of hunting, I guess. And the lure of possible meat. I'm rewarded with one fine rabbit. In no time, I've cleaned and gutted the animal, leaving the head, feet, tail, skin, and innards, under a pile of leaves. I'm wishing for a fire — eating raw rabbit can give you rabbit fever, a lesson I learned the hard way — when I think of the dead tribute. I hurry back to her camp. Sure enough, the coals of her dying fire are still hot. I cut up the rabbit, fashion a spit out of branches, and set it over the coals.

I'm glad for the cameras now. I want sponsors to see I can hunt, that I'm a good bet because I won't be lured into traps as easily as the others will by hunger.

While the rabbit cooks, I grind up part of a charred branch and set about camouflaging my orange pack.

The black tones it down, but I feel a layer of mud would definitely help. Of course, to have mud, I'd need water ...

I pull on my gear, grab my spit, kick some dirt over the coals, and take off in the opposite direction the Careers went. I eat half the rabbit as I go, then wrap up the leftovers in my plastic for later. The meat stops the grumbling in my stomach but does little to quench my thirst. Water is my top priority now.

As I hike along, I feel certain I'm still holding the screen in the Capitol, so I'm careful to continue to hide my emotions. But what a good time Claudius Templesmith must be having with his guest commentators, dissecting Kylin's behavior, my reaction. What to make of it all? Has Kylin revealed his true colors? How does this affect the betting odds Will we lose sponsors? Do we even have sponsors?

Yes, I feel certain we do, or at least did.

Certainly Kylin has thrown a wrench into our gay star-crossed lover dynamic. Or has he? Maybe, since he hasn't spoken much about me, we can still get some mileage out of it. Maybe people will think it's something we plotted together if I seem like it amuses me now.

The sun rises in the sky and even through the canopy it seems overly bright. I coat my lips in some grease from the rabbit and try to keep from panting, but it's no use. It's only been a day and I'm dehydrating fast.

I try and think of everything I know about finding water. It runs downhill, so, in fact, continuing down into this valley isn't a bad thing. If I could just locate a game trail or spot a particularly green patch of vegetation, these might help me along, but nothing seems to change. There's just the slight gradual slope, the birds, the sameness to the trees.

As the day wears on, I know I'm headed for trouble.

What little urine I've been able to pass is a dark brown, my head is aching, and there's a dry patch on my tongue that refuses to moisten. The sun hurts my eyes so I dig out my sunglasses, but when I put them on they do something funny to my vision, so I just stuff them back in my pack.

It's late afternoon when I think I've found help. I spot a cluster of berry bushes and hurry to strip the fruit, to suck the sweet juices from the skins. But just as I'm holding them to my lips, I get a hard look at them.

What I thought were blueberries have a slightly different shape, and when I break one open the insides are bloodred. I don't recognize these berries, perhaps they are edible, but I'm guessing this is some evil trick on the part of the Gamemakers. Even the plant instructor in the Training Center made a point of telling us to avoid berries unless you were 100 percent sure they weren't toxic. Something I already knew, but I'm so thirsty it takes her reminder to give me the strength to fling them away.

Fatigue is beginning to settle on me, but it's not the usual tiredness that follows a long hike. I have to stop and rest frequently, although I know the only cure for what ails me requires continued searching. I try a new tactic — climbing a tree as high as I dare in my shaky state — to look for any signs of water. But as far as I can see in any direction, there's the same unrelenting stretch of forest.

Determined to go on until nightfall, I walk until I'm stumbling over my own feet.

Exhausted, I haul myself up into a tree and belt myself in. I've no appetite, but I suck on a rabbit bone just to give my mouth something to do. Night falls, the anthem plays, and high in the sky I see the picture of the girl, who was apparently from District 10. The one Kylin went back to finish off.

My fear of the Career pack is minor compared to my burning thirst. Besides, they were heading away from me and by now they, too, will have to rest. With the scarcity of water, they may even have had to return to the lake for refills.

Maybe, that is the only course for me as well.

Morning brings distress. My heads throbs with every beat of my heart. Simple movements send stabs of pain through my joints. I fall, rather than jump from the tree. It takes several minutes for me to assemble my gear. Somewhere inside me, I know this is wrong.

I should be acting with more caution, moving with more urgency. But my mind seems foggy and forming a plan is hard. I lean back against the trunk of my tree, one finger gingerly stroking the sandpaper surface of my tongue, as I assess my options. How can I get water?

Return to the lake. No good. I'd never make it.

Hope for rain. There's not a cloud in the sky.

Keep looking. Yes, this is my only chance. But then, another thought hits me, and the surge of anger that follows brings me to me senses.

Kano! He could send me water! Press a button and have it delivered to me in a silver parachute in minutes. I know I must have sponsors, at least one or two who could afford a pint of liquid for me. Yes, it's pricey, but these people, they're made of money. And they'll be betting on me as well. Perhaps Kano doesn't realize how deep my need is.

I say in a voice as loud as I dare. "Water." I wait, hopefully, for a parachute to descend from the sky.

But nothing is forthcoming.

Something is wrong. Am I deluded about having sponsors? Or has Kylin's behavior made them all hang back? No, I don't believe it. There's someone out there who wants to buy me water only Kano is refusing to let it go through. As my mentor, he gets to control the flow of gifts from the sponsors. I know he hates me. He's made that clear enough. But enough to let me die? From this? He can't do that, can he? If a mentor mistreats his tributes, he'll be held accountable by the viewers, by the people back in DistriKylin. Even Kano wouldn't risk that, would he? Say what you will about my fellow traders in the Hob, but I don't think they'd welcome him back there if he let me die this way. And then where would he get his liquor? So ... what? Is he trying to make me suffer for defying him? Is he directing all the sponsors toward Kylin? Is he just too drunk to even notice what's going on at the moment? Somehow I don't believe that and I don't believe he's trying to kill me off by neglect, either. He has, in fact, in his own unpleasant way, genuinely been trying to prepare me for this. Then what is going on?

I bury my face in my hands. There's no danger of tears now, I couldn't produce one to save my life.

What is Kano doing? Despite my anger, hatred, and suspicions, a small voice in the back of my head whispers an answer.

Maybe he's sending you a message, it says. A message. Saying what? Then I know. There's only one good reason Kano could be withholding water from me. Because he knows I've almost found it.

I grit my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch that will do for a walking stick and I start off. The sun's beating down, even more searing than the first two days. I feel like an old piece of leather, drying and cracking in the heat. every step is an effort, but I refuse to stop. I refuse to sit down. If I sit, there's a good chance I won't be able to get up again, that I won't even remember my task.

What easy prey I am! Any tribute, even tiny Tanya, could take me right now, merely shove me over and kill me with my own knife, and I'd have little strength to resist. But if anyone is in my part of the woods, they ignore me. The truth is, I feel a million miles from another living soul.

Not alone though. No, they've surely got a camera tracking me now. I think back to the years of watching tributes starve, freeze, bleed, and dehydrate to death. Unless there's a really good fight going on somewhere, I'm being featured.

My thoughts turn to Khal. It's likely she won't be watching me live, but they'll show updates at the school during lunch. For her sake, I try to look as least desperate as I can.

But by afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting, exactly what I'm doing. I've stumbled repeatedly and managed to regain my feet, but when the stick slides out from under me, I finally tumble to the ground unable to get up. I let my eyes close.

I have misjudged Kano. He has no intention of helping me at all.

This is all right, I is not so bad here. The air is less hot, signifying evening's approach. There's a slight, sweet scent that reminds me of lilies. My fingers stroke the smooth ground, sliding easily across the top. This is an okay place to die, I think.

My fingertips make small swirling patterns in the cool, slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times I've tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface. Good for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud.

Mud! My eyes fly open and I dig my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My nose lifts in the air. And those are lilies! Pond lilies!

I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward the scent. Five yards from where I fell, I crawl through a tangle of plants into a pond. Floating on the top, yellow flowers in bloom, are my beautiful lilies.

It's all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and gulp down as much as I can hold. But I have jus enough sense left to abstain. With trembling hands, I get out my flask and fill it with water. I add what I remember to be the right number of drops of iodine for purifying it. The half an hour of waiting is agony, but I do it. At least, I think it's a half an hour, but it's certainly as long as I can stand.

Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and make myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of hours, I drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I prepare another before I retire to a tree where I continue sipping, eating rabbit, and even indulge in one of my precious crackers. By the time the anthem plays, I feel remarkably better. There are no faces tonight, no tributes died today. Tomorrow I'll stay here, resting, camouflaging my backpack with mud, catching some of those little fish I saw as I sipped, digging up the roots of the pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my sleeping bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of course, it is.

A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from slumber. I look around in bewilderment. It's not yet dawn, but my stinging eyes can see it.

It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me.

Chapter Thirteen

My first impulse is to scramble from the tree, but I'm belted in. Somehow my fumbling fingers release the buckle and I fall to the ground in a heap, still snarled in my sleeping bag. There's no time for any kind of packing. Fortunately, everything is already in the bag. I shove in the belt, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and flee.

The world has transformed to flame and smoke.

Burning branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster, flying through the underbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs, that there's no way I can keep apace with them. So I decide to reveal my weapons. I throw my arms in the direction of a tree branch, heard it click, and swung forward. Like Tarzan, but with my own whips, I move fast, from tree to tree.

The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate me at any moment. And I swing, choking, my bag banging against my back, my face cut with branches that materialize from the gray haze without warning, because I know I am supposed to run, not swing easily.

This was no tribute's campfire gone out of control, no accidental occurrence. The flames that bear down on me have an unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them as human-made, machine-made, Gamemaker-made. Things have been too quiet today.

No deaths, perhaps no fights at all. The audience in the Capitol will be getting bored, claiming that these Games are verging on dullness. This is the one thing the Games must not do.

It's not hard to follow the Gamemakers' motivation.

There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us, probably spread far and thin across the arena.

This fire is designed to flush us out, to drive us together. It may not be the most original device I've seen, but it's very, very effective.

I swing over a burning log. Not high enough. In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest. I drop from the sky and I manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the vomiting begins, and I lose my meager supper and whatever water has remained in my stomach.

Crouching on my hands and knees, I retch until there's nothing left to come up.

I know I need to keep moving, but I'm trembling and light-headed now, gasping for air. I allow myself about a spoonful of water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a few swallows from my bottle. You get one minute, I tell myself. One minute to rest. I take the time to reorder my supplies, wad up the sleeping bag, and messily stuff everything into the backpack. My minute's up. I know it's time to move on, but the smoke has clouded my thoughts. The swift-footed animals that were my pass have left me behind. I know I haven't been in this part of the woods before, there were no sizable rocks like the one I'm sheltering against on my earlier travels. Where are the Gamemakers driving me? Back to the lake? To a whole new terrain filled with new dangers? I had just found a few hours of peace at the pond when this attack began. Would there be any way I could travel parallel to the fire and work my way back there, to a source of water at least? The wall of fire must have an end and it won't burn indefinitely. Not because the Gamemakers couldn't keep it fueled but because, again, that would invite accusations of boredom from the audience. If I could get back behind the fire line, I could avoid meeting up with the Careers. I've just decided to try and loop back around, although it will require miles of travel away from the inferno and then a very circuitous route back, when the first fireball blasts into the rock about two feet from my head. I spring out from under my ledge, energized by renewed fear.

The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us moving, now the audience will get to see some real fun. When I hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground, not taking time to look. The fireball hits a tree off to my left, engulfing it in flames. To remain still is death. I'm barely on my feet before the third ball hits the ground where I was lying, sending a pillar of fire up behind me. Time loses meaning now as I frantically try to dodge the attacks. I can't see where they're being launched from, but it's not a hovercraft. The angles are not extreme enough. I try to throw my whips, but it hurts to move my other arm. So I simply use it as a proppeller, swing with right arm, then hit the ground running, and do forth.

Probably this whole segment of the woods has been armed with precision launchers that are concealed in trees or rocks. Somewhere, in a cool and spotless room, a Gamemaker sits at a set of controls, fingers on the triggers that could end my life in a second. All that is needed is a direct hit.

Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning to my pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive and leap to avoid the fireballs. Each one is only the size of an apple, but packs tremendous power on contact. Every sense I have goes into drive as the need to survive takes over.

There's no time to judge if a move is the correct one.

When there's a hiss, I act or die.

Something keeps me moving forward, though. A lifetime of watching the Hunger Games lets me know that certain areas of the arena are rigged for certain attacks. And that if I can just get away from this section, I might be able to move out of reach of the launchers. I might also then fall straight into a pit of vipers, but I can't worry about that now.

How long I scramble along dodging the fireballs I can't say, but the attacks finally begin to abate. Which is good, because I'm retching again. This time it's an acidic substance that scalds my throat and makes its way into my nose as well. I'm forced to stop as my body convulses, trying desperately to rid itself of the poisons I've been sucking in during the attack. I wait for the next hiss, the next signal to bolt. It doesn't come. The force of the retching has squeezed tears out of my stinging eyes. My clothes are drenched in sweat. Somehow, through the smoke and vomit, I pick up the scent of singed hair. My hand fumbles to my hair and finds a fireball has seared off a small bit of it, and taken some of my headband too. Strands of blackened hair crumble in my fingers. I stare at them, fascinated by the transformation, when the hissing registers.

My muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The fireball crashes into the ground at my side, but not before it skids across my right calf. Seeing my leg on fire sends me over the edge. I twist and scuttle backward on my hands and feet, shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror. When I finally regain enough sense, I roll the leg back and forth on the ground, which stifles the worst of it. But then, without thinking, I take off the leg of my armor to see the damage.

I sit on the ground, a few yards from the blaze set off by the fireball. My calf is screaming, my hands covered in red welts. I'm shaking too hard to move. If the Gamemakers want to finish me off, now is the time.

I hear Cinna's voice, carrying images of rich fabric and sparkling gems. "Takeda, the man on fire." What a good laugh the Gamemakers must be having over that one. Perhaps, Cinna's beautiful costumes have even brought on this particular torture for me. I know he couldn't have foreseen this, must be hurting for me because, in fact, I believe he cares about me. But all in all, maybe showing up stark naked in that chariot would have been safer for me.

The attack is now over. The Gamemakers don't want me dead. Not yet anyway. Everyone knows they could destroy us all within seconds of the opening gong. The real sport of the Hunger Games is watching the tributes kill one another. Every so often, they do kill a tribute just to remind the players they can. But mostly, they manipulate us into confronting one another face-to-face. Which means, if I am no longer being fired at, there is at least one other tribute close at hand. I put my leg back on, after cooling it down with a few drops of the water gallon.

I would drag myself into a tree and take cover now if I could, but the smoke is still thick enough to kill me. I make myself stand and begin to limp away from the wall of flames that lights up the sky. It does not seem to be pursuing me any longer, except with its stinking black clouds.

Another light, daylight, begins to softly emerge. Swirls of smoke catch the sunbeams. My visibility is poor. I can see maybe fifteen yards in any direction. A tribute could easily be concealed from me here. I should draw my knife as a precaution, but I doubt my ability to hold it for long. The pain in my hands can in no way compete with that in my calf. I hate burns, have always hated them, even a small one gotten from pulling a pan of bread from the oven. It is the worst kind of pain to me, but I have never experienced anything like this.

I'm so weary I don't even notice I'm in the pool until I'm ankle-deep. It's spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice in some rocks, and blissfully cool. I plunge my hands into the shallow water and feel instant relief.

Isn't that what my mother always says? The first treatment for a burn is cold water? That it draws out the heat? But she means minor burns. Probably she'd recommend it for my hands. But what of my calf?

Although I have not yet had the courage to examine it, I'm guessing that it's an injury in a whole different class.

I lie on my stomach at edge of the pool for a while, dangling my hands in the water, examining the little flames on my fingernails that are beginning to chip off. Good. I've had enough fire for a lifetime. I take off my leg, and relax in the pool.

I bathe the blood and ash from my face. I try to recall all I know about burns. They are common injuries in the Seam where we cook and heat our homes with coal. Then there are the mine accidents... . A family once brought in an unconscious young man pleading with my mother to help him. The district doctor who's responsible for treating the miners had written him off, told the family to take him home to die. But they wouldn't accept this. He lay on our kitchen table, senseless to the world. I got a glimpse of the wound on his thigh, gaping, charred flesh, burned clear down to the bone, before I ran from the house. I went to the woods and hunted the entire day, haunted by the gruesome leg, memories of my father's death.

What's funny was, Khal, who's scared of her own shadow, stayed and helped. My mother says healers are born, not made. They did their best, but the man died, just like the doctor said he would.

My leg is in need of attention, but I still can't look at it. What if it's as bad as the man's and I can see my bone? Then I remember my mother saying that if a burn's severe, the victim might not even feel pain because the nerves would be destroyed. Encouraged by this, I sit up and swing my leg in front of me.

I almost faint at the sight of my calf. The flesh is a brilliant red covered with blisters. I force myself to take deep, slow breaths, feeling quite certain the cameras are on my face. I can't show weakness at this injury. Not if I want help. Pity does not get you aid.

Admiration at your refusal to give in does. I examine the injury more closely. The burned area is about the size of my hand. None of the skin is blackened. I think it's not too bad to soak. Gingerly I stretch out my leg back into the pool, taking my shoes off and putting them on a rock so the leather doesn't get sodden, and sigh, because this does offer some relief. I know there are herbs, if I could find them, that would speed the healing, but I can't quite call them to mind. Water and time will probably be all I have to work with.

Should I be moving on? The smoke is slowly clearing but still too heavy to be healthy. If I do continue away from the fire, won't I be walking straight into the weapons of the Careers? Besides, every time I lift my leg from the water, the pain rebounds so intensely I have to slide it back in. My hands are slightly less demanding. They can handle small breaks from the pool. So I slowly put my gear back in order. First I fill my bottle with the pool water, treat it, and when enough time has passed, begin to rehydrate my body.

After a time, I force myself to nibble on a cracker, which helps settle my stomach. I roll up my sleeping bag. Except for a few black marks, it's relatively unscathed.

Despite the pain, drowsiness begins to take over. I'd take to a tree and try to rest, except I'd be too easy to spot. Besides, abandoning my pool seems impossible.

I neatly arrange my supplies, even settle my pack on my shoulders, but I can't seem to leave. I spot some water plants with edible roots and make a small meal with my last piece of rabbit. Sip water. Watch the sun make its slow arc across the sky. Where would I go anyway that is any safer than here? I lean back on my pack, overcome by drowsiness. If the Careers want me, let them find me, I think before drifting into a stupor. Let them find me.

And find me, they do. It's lucky I'm ready to move on because when I hear the feet, I have less than a minute head start. Evening has begun to fall. The moment I awake, I'm up and running, splashing across the pool, flying into the underbrush. My leg slows me down, but I sense my pursuers are not as speedy as they were before the fire, either. I hear their coughs, their raspy voices calling to one another.

Still, they are closing in, just like a pack of wild dogs, and so I do what I have done my whole life in such circumstances. I pick a high tree and begin to climb.

If running hurt, climbing is agonizing, however, using my whips I don't have to even touch the bark itself. I'm fast, though, and by the time they've reached the base of my trunk, I'm twenty feet up. For a moment, we stop and survey one another. I hope they can't hear the pounding of my heart.

This could be it, I think. What chance do I have against them? All five are there, the four Careers and Kylin, and my only consolation is they're pretty beat-up, too. Even so, look at their weapons. Look at their faces, grinning and snarling at me, a sure kill above them. It seems pretty hopeless. But then something else registers. They're bigger and stronger than I am, no doubt, but they're also heavier. There's a reason it's me and not Jin who ventures up to pluck the highest fruit, or rob the most remote bird nests. I must weigh at least fifty or sixty pounds less than the smallest Career.

Now I smile. "How's everything with you?" I call down cheerfully.

This takes them aback, but I know the crowd will love it.

"Well enough," says the boy from District 6."Yourself?"

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," I say. I can almost hear the laughter from the Capitol. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

"Think I will," says the same boy.

"Here, take this, Kung Lao," says the girl from District 1, and she offers him the silver bow and sheath of arrows. My bow! My arrows! Just the sight of them makes me so angry I want to scream, at myself, at that traitor Kylin for distracting me from having them. I try to make eye contact with him now, but he seems to be intentionally avoiding my gaze as he polishes his knife with the edge of his shirt.

"No," says Kung Lao, pushing away the bow. "I'll do better with my sword." I can see the weapon, a short, heavy blade at his belt.

I give Kung Lao time to hoist himself into the tree before I begin to climb again. Jin always says I remind him of a squirrel the way I can scurry up even the slenderest limb. Part of it's my weight, but part of it's practice. You have to know where to place your hands and feet. It just sucks that I can't use my whips, but to do so would be to betray them to the Careers. I'm another thirty feet in the air when I hear the crack and look down to see Kung Lao flailing as he and a branch go down. He hits the ground hard and I'm hoping he possibly broke his neck when he gets back to his feet, swearing like a fiend. His hat fell off, and he swears at me.

The girl with the arrows, Jade, I hear someone call her, Jade scales the tree until the branches begin to crack under her feet and then has the good sense to stop.

I'm at least eighty feet high now. She tries to shoot me and it's immediately evident that she's incompetent with a bow. One of the arrows gets lodged in the tree near me though and I'm able to seize it. I wave it teasingly above her head, as if this was the sole purpose of retrieving it, when actually I mean to use it if I ever get the chance. I could kill them, every one of them, if those silver weapons were in my hands.

The Careers regroup on the ground and I can hear them growling conspiratorially among themselves, furious I have made them look foolish. But twilight has arrived and their window of attack on me is closing. Finally, I hear Kylin say harshly, "Oh, let him stay up there. It's not like he's going anywhere. We'll deal with him in the morning."

Well, he's right about one thing. I'm going nowhere.

All the relief from the pool water has gone, leaving me to feel the full potency of my burns. I scoot down to a fork in the tree and clumsily prepare for bed. Put on my jacket. Lay out my sleeping bed. Belt myself in and try to keep from moaning. The heat of the bag's too much for my leg. I cut a slash in the fabric and hang my calf out in the open air. I drizzle water on the wound, my hands.

All my bravado is gone. I'm weak from pain and hunger but can't bring myself to eat. Even if I can last the night, what will the morning bring? I stare into the foliage trying to will myself to rest, but the burns forbid it. Birds are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their young. Night creatures emerge. An owl hoots. The faint scent of a skunk cuts through the smoke. The eyes of some animal peer at me from the neighboring tree— a possum maybe — catching the firelight from the Careers' torches. Suddenly, I'm up on one elbow. Those are no possum's eyes, I know their glassy reflection too well. In fact, those are not animal eyes at all. In the last dim rays of light, I make her out, watching me silently from between the branches. D'Vorah.

How long has she been here? The whole time probably. Still and unobserved as the action unfolded beneath her. Perhaps she headed up her tree shortly before I did, hearing the pack was so close.

For a while we hold each other's gaze. Then, without even rustling a leaf, her hand slides into the open and points to something above my head.

Chapter Fourteen

My eyes follow the line of her finger up into the foliage above me. At first, I have no idea what she's pointing to, but then, about fifteen feet up, I make out the vague shape in the dimming light. But of ... of what?

Some sort of animal? It looks about the size of a raccoon, but it hangs from the bottom of a branch, swaying ever so slightly. There's something else.

Among the familiar evening sounds of the woods, my ears register a low hum. Then I know. It's a wasp nest.

Fear shoots through me, but I have enough sense to keep still. After all, I don't know what kind of wasp lives there. It could be the ordinary leave-us-alone-and-we'll-leave-you-alone type. But these are the Hunger Games, and ordinary isn't the norm. More likely they will be one of the Capitol's muttations, tracker jackers. Like the jabberjays, these killer wasps were spawned in a lab and strategically placed, like land mines, around the districts during the war, and of course D'Vorah would be telling me to do it, she knew exactly what they were.

Larger than regular wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body and a sting that raises a lump the size of a plum on contact. Most people can't tolerate more than a few stings. Some die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually driven people to madness. And there's another thing, these wasps will hunt down anyone who disturbs their nest and attempt to kill them. That's where the tracker part of the name comes from.

After the war, the Capitol destroyed all the nests surrounding their city, but the ones near the districts were left untouched. Another reminder of our weakness, I suppose, just like the Hunger Games.

Another reason to keep inside the fence of District 2.

When Jin and I come across a tracker jacker nest, we immediately head in the opposite direction.

So is that what hangs above me? I look back to D'Vorah for help, but she's moved into her tree, moving closer to me. She's got her eyes... ooh. She's gonna take them, she was telling me to move...

Given my circumstances, I guess it doesn't matter what type of wasp nest it is. I'm wounded and trapped. Darkness has given me a brief reprieve, but by the time the sun rises, the Careers will have formulated a plan to kill me. There's no way they could do otherwise after I've made them look so stupid. That nest may be the sole option I have left. If I can drop it down on them, I may be able to escape.

But I'll risk my life in the process.

Of course, I'll never be able to get in close enough to the actual nest to cut it free. I'll have to saw off the branch at the trunk and send the whole thing down.

The serrated portion of my knife should be able to manage that. But can my hands? And will the vibration from the sawing raise the swarm? And what if the Careers figure out what I'm doing and move their camp? That would defeat the whole purpose.

I realize that the best chance I'll have to do the sawing without drawing notice will be during the anthem. But what uf D'Vorah makes it first and they come for me?

That could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag, make sure my knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make my way up the tree. This in itself is dangerous since the branches are becoming precariously thin even for me, but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the nest, the humming becomes more distinctive. But it's still oddly subdued if these are tracker jackers. It's the smoke, I think. It's sedated them. This was the one defense the rebels found to battle the wasps.

The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem blares out. It's now or never, I think, and begin to saw. Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly drag the knife back and forth. Once I've got a groove, the work requires less effort but is almost more than I can handle. I notice D'Vorah has flown over to me, and has started to spit on the bark I was cutting the groove. It's much easier now, but I still grit my teeth and saw away occasionally glancing at the sky to register that there were no deaths today. That's all right. The audience will be sated seeing me injured and treed and the pack below me. But the anthem's running out and I'm only three quarters of the way through the wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I'm forced to stop.

Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of feel but that may not be the smartest plan. If the wasps are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way down, if I try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time. Better, I think, to sneak up here at dawn and send the nest into my enemies. D'Vorah looks at me, as if to ask why I've stopped, and she decided to do it herself. She motions for me to move out of the way.

In the faint light of the Careers' torches, I inch back down to my fork to find the best surprise I've ever had. Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot attached to a silver parachute. My first gift from a sponsor! Kano must have had it sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm of my hand. What can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew the lid and I know by the scent that it's medicine.

Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The throbbing in my fingertip vanishes.

"Oh, Kano," I whisper. "Thank you." He has not abandoned me. Not left me to fend entirely for myself.

The cost of this medicine must be astronomical.

Probably not one but many sponsors have contributed to buy this one tiny pot. To me, it is priceless.

I dip two fingers in the jar and gently spread the balm over my calf. The effect is almost magical, erasing the pain on contact, leaving a pleasant cooling sensation behind. This is no herbal concoction that my mother grinds up out of woodland plants, it's high-tech medicine brewed up in the Capitol's labs. When my calf is treated, I rub a thin layer into my hands. After wrapping the pot in the parachute, I nestle it safely away in my pack. Now that the pain has eased, it's all I can do to reposition myself in my bag before I plunge into sleep.

A bird perched just a few feet from me alerts me that a new day is dawning. In the gray morning light, I examine my hands. The medicine has transformed all the angry red patches to a soft baby-skin pink. My leg still feels inflamed, but that burn was far deeper. I apply another coat of medicine and quietly pack up my gear. Whatever happens, I'm going to have to move and move fast. I also make myself eat a cracker and a strip of beef and drink a few cups of water.

Almost nothing stayed in my stomach yesterday, and I'm already starting to feel the effects of hunger.

Below me, I can see the Career pack and Kylin asleep on the ground. By her position, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, I'd guess Tanya was supposed to be on guard, but fatigue overcame her.

My eyes squint as they try to penetrate the tree next to me, but I can't make out D'Vorah. Since she tipped me off, it only seems fair to warn her. Besides, if I'm going to die today, it's D'Vorah. I want to win. Even if it means a little extra food for my family, the idea of Kylin being crowned victor is unbearable.

I call D'Vorah's name in a hushed whisper and the eyes appear, wide and alert, at once. She points up to the nest again. I hold up my knife and make a sawing motion. She nods and disappears.

Rosy streaks are breaking through in the east. I can't afford to wait any longer. Compared to the agony of last night's climb, this one is a cinch. At the tree limb that holds the nest, I position the knife in the groove and I'm about to draw the teeth across the wood when I see something moving. There, on the nest. The bright gold gleam of a tracker jacker lazily making its way across the papery gray surface. No question, it's acting a little subdued, but the wasp is up and moving and that means the others will be out soon as well. Sweat breaks out on the palms of my hands, beading up through the ointment, and I do my best to pat them dry on my shirt. If I don't get through this branch in a matter of seconds, the entire swarm could emerge and attack me.

There's no sense in putting it off. I take a deep breath, grip the knife handle and bear down as hard as I can.

Back, forth, back, forth! The tracker jackers begin to buzz and I hear them coming out. Back, forth, back, forth! A stabbing pain shoots through my hand and I know one has found me and the others will be honing in. Back, forth, back, forth. And just as the knife cuts through, I shove the end of the branch as far away from me as I can. It crashes down through the lower branches, snagging temporarily on a few but then twisting free until it smashes with a thud on the ground. The nest bursts open like an egg, and a furious swarm of tracker jackers takes to the air.

Their venom almost immediately makes me woozy. I cling to the tree with one arm while I rip the barbed stinger out of my flesh. Fortunately, only one tracker jacker had identified me before the nest went down. The rest of the insects have targeted their enemies on the ground.

It's mayhem. The Careers have woken to a full-scale tracker jacker attack. Kylin, Kung Lao and Jade have the sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear cries of "To the lake! To the lake!" and know they hope to evade the wasps by taking to the water. It must be close if they think they can outdistance the furious insects. Tanya appears to go completely mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow, which is pointless.

She calls to the others for help but, of course, no one returns. The man from District 11 staggers out of sight, although I wouldn't bet on him making it to the lake. I watch Tanya fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground for a few minutes, and then go still.

The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have vanished in pursuit of the others. I don't think they'll return, but I don't want to risk it. I scamper down the tree and hit the ground running in the opposite direction of the lake. The poison from the stingers makes me wobbly, but I find my way back to my own little pool and submerge myself in the water, just in case any wasps are still on my trail. After about five minutes, I drag myself onto the rocks.

People have not exaggerated the effects of the tracker jacker stings. The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Tanya twitching to death on the ground. It's a lot to handle before the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don't want to think about what Tanya must look like now. Her body disfigured. Her swollen fingers stiffening around the bow ...

The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought connects to another and I'm on my feet, teetering through the trees back to Tanya. The bow. The arrows. I must get them. I haven't heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Tanya is in some sort of coma, her heart still struggling against the wasp venom. But once it stops and the cannon signals her death, a hovercraft will move in and retrieve her body, taking the only bow and sheath of arrows I've seen out of the Games for good. And I refuse to let them slip through my fingers again!

I reach Tanya just as the cannon fires. The tracker jackers have vanished. This girl, so breathtakingly beautiful in her golden dress the night of the interviews, is unrecognizable. Her features eradicated, her limbs three times their normal size. The stinger lumps have begun to explode, spewing putrid green liquid around her. I have to break several of what used to be her fingers with a stone to free the bow.

The sheath of arrows is pinned under her back. I try to roll over her body by pulling on one arm, but the flesh disintegrates in my hands and I fall back on the ground.

Is this real? Or have the hallucinations begun? I squeeze my eyes tight and try to breathe through my mouth, ordering myself not to become sick. Breakfast must stay down, it might be days before I can hunt again. A second cannon fires and I'm guessing the man from District 11 has just died. I hear the birds fall silent and then one give the warning call, which means a hovercraft is about to appear. Confused, I think it's for Tanya, although this doesn't quite make sense because I'm still in the picture, still fighting for the arrows. I lurch back onto my knees and the trees around me begin to spin in circles. In the middle of the sky, I spot the hovercraft. I throw myself over Tanya's body as if to protect it but then I see the man from District 11 being lifted into the air and vanishing.

"Do this!" I command myself. Clenching my jaw, I dig my hands under Tanya's body, get a hold on what must be her rib cage, and force her onto her stomach.

I can't help it, I'm hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so nightmarish and I'm losing my grasp on what's real. I tug on the silver sheath of arrows, but it's caught on something, her shoulder blade, something, and finally yank it free. I've just encircled the sheath with my arms when I hear the footsteps, several pairs, coming through the underbrush, and I realize the Careers have come back. They've come back to kill me or get their weapons or both.

But it's too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is so repulsive I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it.

I'm helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Kylin's face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow.

Instead his arm drops to his side.

"What are you still doing here?" he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he's been dipped in dew. "Are you mad?" He's prodding me with the shaft of the spear now. "Get up! Get up!" I rise, but he's still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He shoves me away from him hard. "Run!"he screams. "Run!" Behind him, Kung Lao slashes his way through the brush.

He's sparkling wet, too, and badly stung under one eye. I catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do as Kylin says. I let my arrow fly, seeing as it hits... something, and somebody goes down.

Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my balance. Back past my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees transform to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the blisters on my hands and I can't shake them free. They're climbing up my arms, my neck. Someone's screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me.

I trip and fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest.

Tucking my knees up to my chin, I wait for death.

Sick and disoriented, I'm able to form only one thought: Kylin Jameson just saved my life. And I might have killed him.

Then the ants bore into my eyes and I black out.

Chapter Fifteen

When I finally do come to my senses, I lie still, waiting for the next onslaught of imagery. But eventually I accept that the poison must have finally worked its way out of my system, leaving my body wracked and feeble. I'm still lying on my side, locked in the fetal position. I lift a hand to my eyes to find them sound, untouched by ants that never existed. Simply stretching out my limbs requires an enormous effort.

So many parts of me hurt, it doesn't seem worthwhile taking inventory of them. Very, very slowly I manage to sit up. I'm in a shallow hole, not filled with the humming orange bubbles of my hallucination but with old, dead leaves. My clothing's damp, but I don't know whether pond water, dew, rain, or sweat is the cause. For a long time, all I can do is take tiny sips from my bottle and watch a beetle crawl up the side of a honeysuckle bush.

How long have I been out? It was morning when I lost reason. Now it's afternoon. But the stiffness in my joints suggests more than a day has passed, even two possibly. If so, I'll have no way of knowing which tributes survived that tracker jacker attack. Not Tanya or the man from District 11. But there was the boy from District 6, Jade from District 1, and Kylin. Did they die from the stings? Certainly if they lived, their last days must have been as horrid as my own. And what about D'Vorah? She's a Kytinn, so she survived. She's probably sent them out now.

A foul, rotten taste pervades my mouth, and the water has little effect on it. I drag myself over to the honeysuckle bush and pluck a flower. I gently pull the stamen through the blossom and set the drop of nectar on my tongue. The sweetness spreads through my mouth, down my throat, warming my veins with memories of summer, and my home woods and Jin's presence beside me. For some reason, our discussion from that last morning comes back to me.

 _"We could do it, you know."_

 _"What?"_

 _"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it."_

And suddenly, I'm not thinking of Jin but of Kylin and ... Kylin! He saved my life! I think. Because by the time we met up, I couldn't tell what was real and what the tracker jacker venom had caused me to imagine. But if he did, and my instincts tell me he did, what for? Is he simply working the Lover Boy angle he initiated at the interview? Or was he actually trying to protect me? And if he was, what was he doing with those Careers in the first place? None of it makes sense.

But that was only if he was alive. If the arrow I shot had hit Lao. Or if I shot the arrow at all.

I wonder what Jin made of the incident for a moment and then I push the whole thing out of my mind because for some reason Jin and Kylin do not coexist well together in my thoughts.

So I focus on the one really good thing that's happened since I landed in the arena. I have a bow and arrows! A full dozen arrows if you count the one I retrieved in the tree. They bear no trace of the noxious green slime that me from Tanya's body

—which leads me to believe that might not have been wholly real —but they have a fair amount of dried blood on them. I can clean them later, but I do take a minute to shoot a few into a nearby tree. They are more like the weapons in the Training Center than my ones at home, but who cares? That I can work with.

The weapons give me an entirely new perspective on the Games. I know I have tough opponents left to face. But I am no longer merely prey that runs and hides or takes desperate measures. If Kung Lao broke through the trees right now, I wouldn't flee, I'd shoot.

I find I'm actually anticipating the moment with pleasure.

But first, I have to get some strength back in my body. I'm very dehydrated again and my water supply is dangerously low. The little padding I was able to put on by gorging myself during prep time in the Capitol is gone, plus several more pounds as well. My hip bones and ribs are more prominent than I remember them being since those awful months after my father's death. And then there are my wounds to contend with — burns, cuts, and bruises from smashing into the trees, and three tracker jacker stings, which are as sore and swollen as ever. I treat my burns with the ointment and try dabbing a bit on my stings as well, but it has no effect on them. My mother knew a treatment for them, some type of leaf that could draw out the poison, but she seldom had cause to use it, and I don't even remember its name let alone its appearance.

Water first, I can hunt along the way now.

It's easy to see the direction I came from by the path of destruction my crazed body made through the foliage. So I walk off in the other direction, hoping my enemies still lie locked in the surreal world of tracker jacker venom.

I can't move too quickly, my joints reject any abrupt motions. But I establish the slow hunter's tread I use when tracking game. Within a few minutes, I spot a rabbit and make my first kill with the bow and arrow.

It's not my usual clean shot through the eye, but I'll take it. After about an hour, I find a stream, shallow but wide, and more than sufficient for my needs. The sun's hot and severe, so while I wait for my water to purify I strip down to my underclothes and wade into the mild current. I'm filthy from head to toe, I try splashing myself but eventually just lay down in the water for a few minutes, letting it wash off the soot and blood and skin that has started to peel off my burns. After rinsing out my armor and laying them on bushes to dry, I sit on the bank in the sun for a bit, untangling my hair with my fingers. My appetite returns and I eat a cracker and a strip of beef. With a handful of moss, I polish the blood from my silver weapons.

Refreshed, I treat my burns again and dress in the damp clothes, knowing the sun will dry them soon enough. Following the stream against its current seems the smartest course of action. I'm traveling uphill now, which I prefer, with a source of fresh water not only for myself but possible game. I easily take out a strange bird that must be some form of wild turkey. Anyway, it looks plenty edible to me. By late afternoon, I decide to build a small fire to cook the meat, betting that dusk will help conceal the smoke and I can quench the fire by nightfall. I clean the game, taking extra care with the bird, but there's nothing alarming about it. Once the feathers are plucked, it's no bigger than a chicken, but it's plump and firm. I've just placed the first lot over the coals when I hear the twig snap.

In one motion, I turn to the sound, bringing the bow and arrow to my shoulder. There's no one there. No one I can see anyway. Then I spot the tip of a boot just peeking out from behind the trunk of a tree.

I cringe as I see the man walk out from behind the tree. He is big and tall, and I remember him as the man from District 5. Erron Black.

He stares at my predicament, his mask covering his face, but he could easily be smiling. "Well, if it isn't Takahashi Takeda, the Boy who set the World to Sparkle." He scratches his forehead, covered with a ten gallon hat. "Or is it the Boy on Fire? Or it that Kylin?"

I stare at him, and say, "I'm the only boy on fire, now."

His eyebrow cocks forward. "So he's dead. You killed your husband."

I grow angry and stand up. Before I can even move, his guns are on me. "Watch yourself, kid. It's Kombat time now."

I stare at him, looking confused, but I agree, and I can hear Kotal Kahn's orchestrated voice. "Round One. Fight!"

During this tound, I unleash my whips on him, showing him he was a fool to challenge me, and during the round, I jump up, and lash my whip into his throat, run around him and kick furiously into his back, which knocks him on the ground, and do an axe kick into his face. As Erron stays down, I hear a, "Takeda Wins." To celebrate this round win, I unleash my whips and gratify myself by spinning them around in a circular motion around me very fast. Then I sheath them. Erron gets up and rotates his revolvers and stares at me.

During Round Two, Erron starts to throw these weird sand balls that explode when they get close to me, covering me with the stuff, and launching me into the air. He also grabs me, and sits on top on me, hitting me repeatedly with his guns in the face. To celebrate his victory and to put space between us, he takes his guns and swirls them around expertly through his fingers, then puts them back in his pockets. "Erron Black Wins!"

The final round, I am dizzy and disoriented, so he quickly and subtley beats me. He also shoots me quite a few times with a gun he has strapped to his back. And to end it, he swiped the gun at me, doing a sort of an uppercut, knocking me into the air. I land on the ground, and get up, trying to fight, but I'm too dizzy. I see Erron Black stare at me, and he says, "You enjoy being Finished?"

I get my ass up and follow him.

...

Once I reach the stream, I have only to follow it downhill to the place I initially picked it up after the tracker jacker attack. I have to be cautious as I move along the water though, because I find my thoughts preoccupied with unanswered questions, most of which concern Kylin. The cannon that fired early this morning, did that signify his death? If so, how did he die? At the hand of a Career? At my arrow? And was that in revenge for letting me live, if the Career killed him? I struggle again to remember that moment over Tanya's body, when he burst through the trees. But just the fact that he was sparkling leads me to doubt everything that happened.

I must have been moving very slowly yesterday because I reach the shallow stretch where I took my bath in just a few hours. I stop to replenish my water and add a layer of mud to my backpack. It seems bent on reverting to orange no matter how many times I cover it.

My proximity to the Careers' camp sharpens my senses, and the closer I get to them, the more guarded I am, pausing frequently to listen for unnatural sounds, an arrow already fitted into the string of my bow. I don't see any other tributes, but I do notice some of the things Erron has mentioned.

Patches of the sweet berries. A bush with the leaves that healed my stings. Clusters of tracker jacker nests in the vicinity of the tree I was trapped in. And here and there, the black-and-white flash of a mockingjay wing in the branches high over my head.

When I reach the tree with the abandoned nest at the foot, I pause a moment, to gather my courage. Erron Black has given specific instructions on how to reach the best spying place near the lake from this point.

Remember, I tell myself. You're the hunter now, not them. I get a firmer grasp on my bow and go on. I make it to the copse Erron has told me about and again have to admire his cleverness. It's right at the edge of the wood, but the bushy foliage is so thick down low I can easily observe the Career camp without being spotted. Between us lies the flat expanse where the Games began.

There are three tributes. Jade, Kung Lao, and a big, ashen-skinned boy who must be from District 8. He is Tempest, master of wind, and is an excellent fighter.

All three tributes seem to still be recovering from the tracker jacker attack. Even from here, I can see the large swollen lumps on their bodies. They must not have had the sense to remove the stingers, or if they did, not known about the leaves that healed them.

Apparently, whatever medicines they found in the Cornucopia have been ineffective.

The Cornucopia sits in its original position, but its insides have been picked clean. Most of the supplies, held in crates, burlap sacks, and plastic bins, are piled neatly in a pyramid in what seems a questionable distance from the camp. Others are sprinkled around the perimeter of the pyramid, almost mimicking the layout of supplies around the Cornucopia at the onset of the Games. A canopy of netting that, aside from discouraging birds, seems to be useless shelters the pyramid itself.

The whole setup is completely perplexing. The distance, the netting, and the presence of the boy from District 8. One thing's for sure, destroying those supplies is not going to be as simple as it looks. Some other factor is at play here, and I'd better stay put until I figure out what it is. My guess is the pyramid is booby-trapped in some manner. I think of concealed pits, descending nets, a thread that when broken sends a poisonous dart into your heart.

Really, the possibilities are endless.

While I am mulling over my options, I hear Kung Lao shout out. He's pointing up to the woods, far beyond me, and without turning I know that Erron must have set the first campfire. We'd made sure to gather enough green wood to make the smoke noticeable. The Careers begin to arm themselves at once.

An argument breaks out. It's loud enough for me to hear that it concerns whether or not the boy from District 8 should stay or accompany them.

"He's coming. We need him in the woods, and his job's done here anyway. No one can touch those supplies," says Kung Lao.

"What about Lover Boy?" says Jade.

"I keep telling you, forget about him. I know where I cut him. You heard the cannon, Takeda shot him, I finished him," says Kung Lao.

So Kylin is out there in the woods, dead. I killed him.

"Come on," says Kung Lao. He thrusts a spear into the hands of Tempest, which he smacks him in the head with, making a solid _Thwack!_ sound.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.

"Don'treat me like I'm less that. Never forget I have a higher score." But he relents to stay.

Kung Lao shakes his head, and they head off in the direction of the fire. The last thing I hear as they enter the woods is Kung Lao saying, "When we find him, I kill him in my own way, and you don't interfere." Somehow I don't think he's talking about Erron. He didn't drop a nest of tracker jackers on him.

I stay put for a half an hour or so, trying to figure out what to do about the supplies. The one advantage I have with the bow and arrow is distance. I could send a flaming arrow into the pyramid easily enough — I'm a good enough shot to get it through those openings in the net — but there's no guarantee it would catch.

More likely it'd just burn itself out and then what? I'd have achieved nothing and given them far too much information about myself. That I was here, that I have an accomplice, that I can use the bow and arrow with accuracy.

There's no alternative. I'm going to have to get in closer and see if I can't discover what exactly protects the supplies. In fact, I'm just about to reveal myself when a movement catches my eye. Several hundred yards to my right, I see someone emerge from the woods. For a second, I think it's Erron, but then I recognize — she's the one we couldn't remember this morning, Skarlet — creeping out onto the plain.

When she decides it's safe, she runs for the pyramid, with quick, small steps. Just before she reaches the circle of supplies that have been littered around the pyramid, she stops, searches the ground, and carefully places her feet on a spot. Then she begins to approach the pyramid with strange little hops, sometimes landing on one foot, teetering slightly, sometimes risking a few steps. At one point, she launches up in the air, over a small barrel and lands poised on her tiptoes. But she overshot slightly, and her momentum throws her forward. I hear her give a sharp squeal as her hands hit the ground, but nothing happens. In a moment, she's regained her feet and continues until she has reached the bulk of the supplies.

So, I'm right about the booby trap, but it's clearly more complex than I had imagined. I was right about the girl, too. How wily is she to have discovered this path into the food and to be able to replicate it so neatly? She fills her pack, taking a few items from a variety of containers, crackers from a crate, a handful of apples from a burlap sack that hangs suspended from a rope off the side of a bin. But only a handful from each, not enough to tip off that the food is missing. Not enough to cause suspicion. And then she's doing her odd little dance back out of the circle and scampering into the woods again, safe and sound.

I realize I'm grinding my teeth in frustration. Skarlet has confirmed what I'd already guessed. But what sort of trap have they laid that requires such dexterity? Has so many trigger points? Why did she squeal so as her hands made contact with the earth?

You'd have thought ... and slowly it begins to dawn on me ... you'd have thought the very ground was going to explode.

"It's mined," I whisper. That explains everything. The Careers' willingness to leave their supplies, Skarlet's reaction, the involvement of the boy from District 8, where they have the factories, where they make televisions and automobiles and explosives. But where did he get them? In the supplies? That's not the sort of weapon the Gamemakers usually provide, given that they like to see the tributes draw blood personally. I slip out of the bushes and cross to one of the round metal plates that lifted the tributes into the arena. The ground around it has been dug up and patted back down. The land mines were disabled after the sixty seconds we stood on the plates, but the boy from District 8 must have managed to reactivate them. I've never seen anyone in the Games do that. I bet it me as a shock even to the Gamemakers.

Well, hurray for the boy from District 8 for putting one over on them, but what am I supposed to do now? Obviously, I can't go strolling into that mess without blowing myself sky-high. As for sending in a burning arrow, that's more laughable than ever. The mines are set off by pressure. It doesn't have to be a lot, either. One year, a girl dropped her token, a small wooden ball, while she was at her plate, and they literally had to scrape bits of her off the ground.

My arm's pretty good, I might be able to chuck some rocks in there and set off what? Maybe one mine?

That could start a chain reaction. Or could it? Would the boy from District 8 have placed the mines in such a way that a single mine would not disturb the others? Thereby protecting the supplies but ensuring the death of the invader. Even if I only blew up one mine, I'd draw the Careers back down on me for sure.

And anyway, what am I thinking? There's that net, clearly strung to deflect any such attack. Besides, what I'd really need is to throw about thirty rocks in there at once, setting off a big chain reaction, demolishing the whole lot.

I glance back up at the woods. The smoke from Erron's second fire is wafting toward the sky. By now, the Careers have probably begun to suspect some sort of trick. Time is running out.

There is a solution to this, I know there is, if I can only focus hard enough. I stare at the pyramid, the bins, the crates, too heavy to topple over with an arrow. Maybe one contains cooking oil, and the burning arrow idea is reviving when I realize I could end up losing all twelve of my arrows and not get a direct hit on an oill bin, since I'd just be guessing. I'm genuinely thinking of trying to re-create Scar's trip up to the pyramid in hopes of finding a new means of destruction when my eyes light on the burlap bag of apples. I could sever the rope in one shot, didn't I do as much in the Training Center? It's a big bag, but it still might only be good for one explosion. If only I could free the apples themselves ...

I know what to do. I move into range and give myself three arrows to get the job done. I place my feet carefully, block out the rest of the world as I take meticulous aim, The first arrow tears through the side of the bag near the top, leaving a split in the burlap.

The second widens it to a gaping hole. I can see the first apple teetering when I let the third arrow go, catching the torn flap of burlap and ripping it from the bag.

For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then the apples spill to the ground and I'm blown backward into the air.

Chapter Seventeen

The impact with the hard-packed earth of the plain knocks the wind out of me. My backpack does little to soften the blow. Fortunately my quiver has caught in the crook of my elbow, sparing both itself and my shoulder, and my bow is locked in my grasp. The ground still shakes with explosions. I can't hear them.

I can't hear anything at the moment. But the apples must have set off enough mines, causing debris to activate the others. I manage to shield my face with my arms as shattered bits of matter, some of it burning, rain down around me. An acrid smoke fills the air, which is not the best remedy for someone trying to regain the ability to breathe.

After about a minute, the ground stops vibrating. I roll on my side and allow myself a moment of satisfaction the sight of the smoldering wreckage that was recently the pyramid. The Careers aren't likely to salvage anything out of that.

I'd better get out of here, I think. They'll be making a beeline for the place. But once I'm on my feet, I realize escape may not be so simple. I'm dizzy. Not the slightly wobbly kind, but the kind that sends the trees swooping around you and uses the earth to move in waves under your feet.

I take a few steps and somehow wind up on my hands and knees. I wait a few minutes to let it pass, but it doesn't.

Panic begins to set in. I can't stay here. Flight is essential. But I can neither walk nor hear. Have I gone deaf from the explosion? The idea frightens me. I rely as much on my ears as my eyes as a hunter, maybe more at times. But I can't let my fear show.

Absolutely, positively, I am live on every screen in Panem. I can't walk, but can I crawl? I move forward tentatively. Yes, if I go very slowly, I can crawl. Most of the woods will offer insufficient cover.

My only hope is to make it back to Tanya's copse and conceal myself in greenery. I can't get caught out here on my hands and knees in the open. Not only will I face death, it's sure to be a long and painful one at Kung Lao's hand. The thought of Khal having to watch that keeps me doggedly inching my way toward the hideout.

Another blast knocks me flat on my face. A stray mine, set off by some collapsing crate. This happens twice more. I'm reminded of those last few kernels that burst when Khal and I pop corn over the fire at home.

To say I make it in the nick of time is an understatement. I have literally just dragged myself into the tangle of hushes at the base of the trees when there's Kung Lao, barreling onto the plain, soon followed by his companion. His rage is so extreme it might be comical — so people really do tear out their hair and beat the ground with their fists — if I didn't know that it was aimed at me, at what I have done to him. Add to that my proximity, my inability to run or defend myself, and in fact, the whole thing has me terrified. I'm glad my hiding place makes it impossible for the cameras to get a close shot of me because I'm biting my nails like there's no tomorrow. Gnawing off the last bits of nail polish, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

The boy from District 8 throws stones into the ruins and must have declared all the mines activated because the Careers are approaching the wreckage.

Kung Lao has finished the first phase of his tantrum and takes out his anger on the smoking remains by kicking open various containers. The other tributes are poking around in the mess, looking for anything to salvage, but there's nothing. The boy from District 8 has done his job too well. This idea must occur to Kung Lao, too, because he turns on the boy and appears to be shouting at him. The boy stands his ground, and before you know it, Lao has flown across the ground and slammed straight into the nearest tree.

It's that quick. The death of Kung Lao.

Jade seems to be crying over Lao. Tempest steps to her and asks her a question, and Jade looks up at him, her eyes staring deeply into his, and... a smile? She smiles and then... Tempest smiles too? I'm confused.

Jade kisses him, and they begin to speak. Tempest starts gesturing towards the gorest, and I can tell he wants to return to the woods, but they keep pointing at the sky, which puzzles me until I realize, Of course. They think whoever set off the explosions is dead.

They don't know about the arrows and the apples.

They assume the booby trap was faulty, but that the tribute who blew up the supplies was killed doing it. If there was a cannon shot, it could have been easily lost in the subsequent explosions. The shattered remains of the thief removed by hovercraft. They retire to the far side of the lake to allow the Gamemakers to retrieve the body of Kung Lao. And they wait.

A cannon goes off. A hovercraft appears and takes the dead boy. The sun dips below the horizon.

I hear rustling behind me, and as I turn, its Erron. He looks at me, presumably smiling or grimacing down, holding... three rabbits?

We begin to split the rabbits, chewing on their goodness. Erron cooked it good, none of it is uncooked. It fills me up to keep me energized.

Night falls. Up in the sky, we see the seal and hear the anthem begin. A moment of darkness.

They show Kung Lao. They show the man from District 12, Raiden, who must have died this morning.

Then the seal reappears. So, now they know. The bomber survived. In the seal's light, I can see Tempest and Jade put on their night-vision glasses. Jade ignites a tree branch for a torch, illuminating the grim determination on all their faces. They stride back into the woods to hunt.

"Good job, Takeda," Erron says. "When I heard the bombs, I knew you came through, just didn't know who that was that died." He looks me in the eye. "I thought you were that cannon."

I nod. "To be honest, I did too."

Erron lets out a chuckle, and he says, "Thank goodness it wasn't. Then the Games would be boring. I have a feeling this Games is gonna be interesting."

I stare at him and debate wether or not to ask, but plunge straight in, "Where are you from?"

He stares at me, then says, "District 5. I used to run a major farm. I had three boys working for me. They were like sons to me. Worst thing that ever happened to me when Jerrod was called." His eyes turn sad. "I volunteered to stop this from happening to them. It simply couldn't. Even now, they're watching over the farm. I'm pretty much certain I'm gonna die out here, so it'll be permanent."

I stare at him, saying, "But Erron, you've made it so far! Only two more have to die before we're all free!"

Erron looks at me. "Who do you think is gonna bite the dust? Skarlet? She's practically immune to attacks. The Careers? So lost in their love for each other, both loving every second, _exploring_ each other. D'Vorah, a bug that practically disappeared, what chance do I have? You, you could make it out. Kill the Careers, make yourself one of the Victors, but not with me around."

Is he counting himself out? He will make it, I promise myself. I will make sure his workers see him again, no matter what.

Jade, me, Skarlet, D'Vorah, Erron, and Reiko. Just 6 of us. The betting must be getting really hot in the Capitol. They'll be doing special features on each of us now. Probably interviewing our friends and families. It's been a long time since a tribute from District 2 even made it into the top eight.

A cold breeze has sprung up. I reach for my sleeping bag before I remember I left it. I was supposed to pick up another one, but what with the mines and all, I forgot. I begin to shiver. Erron notices, and scoops out a hollow under the bushes. He then covers me with leaves and pine needles. I'm still freezing. Erron heads for a tree.

"Erron," I ask. He grunts at me, turning around.

"Yeah?" he asks.

I climb up out of the hollow and begin digging out more of the ground. Soon, there's space for both of us to fit. I let Erron climb in first, then lower myself in. We're squished together, but the heat from his body is against mine. He puts his arms around my waist, pulling me closer.

I lay my sheet of plastic over us, and position my backpack to block the wind. It's a little better. I begin to have more sympathy for the girl that lit the fire that first night. But now it's us who needs to grit our teeth and tough it out until morning. More leaves, more pine needles. I pull my arms inside myself, and tuck my knees up to my chest, so that Erron is facing me, but me facing the outside. Somehow, I drift off to sleep.

When I open my eyes, I am shivering in the cold. The warm body that had its strong hard around me has disappeared. As I sit up, I hear a laugh somewhere near the lake and freeze. The laugh's distorted, but the fact that it registered at all means I must be regaining my hearing. Yes, my left ear can hear.

I peer through the bushes, afraid the Careers have returned, trapping me here for an indefinite time. No, it's Scar, standing in the rubble of the pyramid and laughing. She's smarter than the Careers, actually finding a few useful items in the ashes. A metal pot. A knife blade. I'm perplexed by her amusement until I realize that with the Careers' stores eliminated, she might actually stand a chance.

Just like the rest of us. It crosses my mind to reveal myself and enlist her as a second ally against that pack. But I rule it out. There's something about that sly grin that makes me sure that befriending her would ultimately get me a knife in the back. With that in mind, this might be an excellent time to shoot her.

But she's heard something, not me, because her head turns away, toward the drop-off, and she sprints for the woods. I wait. No one, nothing shows up. Still, if face thought it was dangerous, maybe it's time for me to get out of here, too.

Since I've no idea where the Careers are, the route back by the stream seems as good as any. I hurry, bow in one hand, a hunk of cold groosling in the other, because I'm famished now, and not just for leaves and berries but for the fat and protein in the meat. The trip to the stream is uneventful. Once there, I refill my water and wash, taking particular care with my injured ear. Then I travel uphill using the stream as a guide. At one point, I find boot prints in the mud along the bank. The Careers have been here, but not for a while. The prints are deep because they were made in soft mud, but now they're nearly dry in the hot sun. I haven't been careful enough about my own tracks, counting on a light tread and the pine needles to conceal my prints. Now I strip off my boots and socks and go barefoot up the bed of the stream.

The cool water has an invigorating effect on my body, my spirits. I shoot two fish, easy pickings in this slow-moving stream, and go ahead and eat one raw even though I've just had the groosling. The second I'll save for Erron.

Gradually, subtly, the ringing in my ear diminishes until it's gone entirely. I find myself pawing at my left ear periodically, trying to clean away whatever deadens its ability to collect sounds. If there's improvement, it's undetectable. I can't adjust to deafness in the ear. It makes me feel off-balanced and defenseless to my left. Blind even. My head keeps turning to the injured side, as my right ear tries to compensate for the wall of nothingness where yesterday there was a constant flow of information.

The more time that passes, the less hopeful I am that this is an injury that will heal.

When I reach the site of our first meeting, I feel certain it's been undisturbed. There's no sign of Erron, not on the ground or in the trees. This is odd. By now he should have returned, as it's midday. I wonder where he went.

He's probably just being cautious about making his way back. I wish he'd hurry, because I don't want to hang around here too long. I want to spend the afternoon traveling to higher ground, hunting as we go. But there's nothing really for me to do but wait.

I wash the blood out of my hair and clean my ever-growing list of wounds. The burns are much better but I use a bit of medicine on them anyway.

Then I hear a scream.

But the scream was Erron's

I freak out, looking around, screaming for Erron. Where was he? Was that him? No!

"Erron! Erron!" I scream, trying to block out the sound of the cannon. I am practically crying tears, sobbing. Was it Erron?

The main thing to worry about now is keeping out infection. I go ahead and eat the second fish. It isn't going to last long in this hot sun, but it should be easy enough to spear a few more for Erron. If she would just show up.

Feeling too vulnerable on the ground with my lopsided hearing, I scale a tree to wait. If the Careers show up, this will be a fine place to shoot them from.

Erron Black clears his throat, just like the first time we met, and I'm glad to see him. The birds fall silent. I rush into his arms, and he kisses my forehead. I'm sobbing, telling him I heard the scream. He says he fell out of a tree, but he was fine. He sits me down and begins stroking my hair. We sit like that for a while, as he just stares at me, watching me calm down. When I'm settled down, we again begin trekking through the woods. He's holding a lot of stuff, stuff like my sleeping bag, a cooked squirrel, and one of those orange backpacks.

I obediently consolidate the supplies I want into my pack. He has knives, food, and a few arrows I left behind. We keep trekking, trying to find the others. Who knows where the Careers are now? Either too far to reach me or too sure this is a trick or ... is it possible? Too scared of me? They know I have the bow and arrows, of course, Kung Lao saw me take them from Tanya's body, but have they put two and two together yet? Figured out I blew up the supplies and killed their fellow Career? Possibly they think Reiko did this?

And what about Scar? Did she hang around to watch me blow up the supplies? No. When I caught her laughing in the ashes the next morning, it was as if someone had given her a lovely surprise.

I really think we stand a chance of doing it now.

We hike through the forest, making our way towards... something.

Erron and I reach

It turns into nightfall. It's been an uneventful day according to the sky. No deaths. I wonder how long we'll get until the next catastrophe drives us back together. If it's going to be tonight, I want to get some sleep first. I cover my good ear to block out the strains of the anthem, but then I hear the trumpets and sit straight up in anticipation.

For the most part, the only communication the tributes get from outside the arena is the nightly death toll. But occasionally, there will be trumpets followed by an announcement. Usually, this will be a call to a feast. When food is scarce, the Gamemakers will invite the players to a banquet, somewhere known to all like the Cornucopia, as an inducement to gather and fight. Sometimes there is a feast and sometimes there's nothing but a loaf of stale bread for the tributes to compete for. I wouldn't go in for the food, but this could be an ideal time to take out a few competitors.

Claudius Templesmith's voice booms down from overhead, congratulating the six of us who remain.

But he is not inviting us to a feast. He's saying something very confusing. There's been a rule change in the Games. A rule change! That in itself is mind bending since we don't really have any rules to speak of except don't step off your circle for sixty seconds and the unspoken rule about not eating one another.

Under the new rule, only two tributes will be declared winners if they are the last two alive and do not originate from the same district. Claudius muses, as if he knows we're not getting it, and repeats the change again.

The news sinks in. Only two tributes can win this year. Six into two.

 **PART III**

 _ **"THE VICTOR"**_

 _Chapter Nineteen_

A sound! Just in front of us! Erron hears it too, and looks at me. We both run in that direction, sensing that the person is running too. I wonder who it is. Reiko, D'Vorah, the Careers? Whoever, we would make quick work of them.

We run quickly, and stop as we see both of the Careers with their backs turned to us. They turn around, and look at us both.

"Well. The Boy on Fire, and the Cowboy," Jade says. "Hear the new rule? This'll be fun, taking you two."

Tempest lunges for me, but before he can get there, I jump out of the way, stuffing his attack with a kick. He falls, dropping to the ground. Jade throws her glaive, but Erron moves out of the way. Jade watches and smiles as the glaive comes back, slucing him in the leg. She then drop kicks him off the cliff we'd been standing on.

He falls, clutching his leg. Blood seeps out of the wound. I throw my whip out at Jade, catching her off guard. It sticks in her stomach, and I throw her into Tempest.

She gets up. "You think you got me?" she asks. "I'll have you begging for mercy in five minutes."

"You will be dead by then," I say.

...

I stand before her as Kotal Kahn speaks. "Finish Her!"

I take my whip, and slice both of her arms off by turning on the blades. Then I stick the last in her mouth, and grin as I activate the blades. They grab her throat, and I pull out, ripping it out. She coughs up chunks of body parts, and falls, choking on her own blood.

"Fatality!" the voice screams. Tempest is nowhere to be found, and I must find Erron. I look at the cliff, seeing that there are trails of blood where he moved. He's still alive. I climb down and start moving towards the ground. I get down, and go on.

Hugging the rocks, I move slowly in the direction of the blood, searching for him. I find a few more bloodstains, but no sign of life. I break down and say his name in a hushed voice. "Erron! Erron!" Then a mockingjay lands on a scruffy tree and begins to mimic my tones so I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down.

My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice.

"You here to finish me off, kid?" I whip around. It's come from the left, so I can't pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak.

Still, it must have been Erron. Who else in the arena would call me kid? My eyes peruse the bank, but there's nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks.

"Erron?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it?

No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Erron?"

"I'm right here, kid," he says. I turn around, and he's on the ground, his leg propped up. I rush over to him, and look at the cut. It's bloody, really bloody. He tried to put some water on it, because there's not as much as there should be. "Wanted me to enjoy my final moments?"

"You're not going to die," I tell him firmly.

"Says who?" His voice is so ragged. His eyes stare into mine, and he seems tired.

"Says me. We're on the same team, you know," I tell him.

His eyes open. "So I see. Nice of you to find what's left of me."

I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. "How bad did she cut you?" I ask.

"No doctor, but I can feel its pretty bad.," he answers.

"Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," I say.

When I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It's only two feet away, how hard can it be? Its hard when I realize he's barely able to move an inch on his own. He's so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he's doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. "Look, Erron, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" I say.

"Excellent, kid," he says.

I crouch down beside him. No matter what happens, I tell myself, don't stop until he's in the water. "On three," I say."One, two, three!" I can only manage one full roll before I have to stop because of the horrible sound he's making. Now he's on the edge of the stream. Maybe this is better anyway.

"Okay, change of plans. I'm not going to put you all the way in," I tell him. Besides, if I get him in, who knows if I'd ever be able to get him out?

"No more rolling?" he asks.

"That's all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?" I say. I've got two water bottles. I prop them against rocks in the stream so that two are always filling while I pour my hand water over Erron's body.

I gently remove his red over shirts and bandoleers, cut into his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife too and drench him again to work it loose. The only thing bad is the cut on his leg and the knot in his other one. His hand was scratched. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Jade did to his leg.

Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he's lying in what's become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy clothes and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the cream to his hand. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he's burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from him and find pills that reduce your temperature. My mother actually breaks down and buys these on occasion when her home remedies fail.

"Swallow these," I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine.

"Thanks. Can I sleep now, kid?" he asks.

"Soon," I promise. "I need to look at your leg first." Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him. I can see the tear Jade's glaive made in the fabric over his thigh. It's disgusting, its bleeding, and there's mud over it, but I have to clean it.

"Pretty awful, huh?" says Erron. He's watching me closely.

"So-so." I shrug like it's no big deal. "You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines." I refrain from saying how I usually clear out of the house whenever she's treating anything worse than a cold. Come to think of it, I don't even much like to be around coughing. "First thing is to clean it well."

I've left on Erron's undershorts because they're not in bad shape and I don't want to pull them over the swollen thigh and, all right, maybe the idea of him being naked makes me uncomfortable. That's another thing about my mother and Khal. Nakedness has no effect on them, gives them no cause for embarrassment. Ironically, at this point in the Games, my little sister would be of far more use to Erron than I am. I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the better the wound looks.

The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well. But the gash on his leg ... what on earth can I do for that?

"Why don't we give it some air and then ..." I trail off.

"And then you'll patch it up?" says Erron. He looks almost sorry for me, as if he knows how lost I am.

"That's right," I say. "In the meantime, you eat these." I put a few dried pear halves in his hand and go back in the stream to wash the rest of his clothes.

When they're flattened out and drying, I examine the contents of the first-aid kit. It's pretty basic stuff.

Bandages, fever pills, medicine to calm stomachs.

Nothing of the caliber I'll need to treat Erron.

"We're going to have to experiment some," I admit. I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg. I tell myself this is a good thing and bite the inside of my cheek hard because my breakfast is threatening to make a reappearance.

"Takeda?" Erron says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words. "How about that kiss?"

I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can't stand it. "I don't roll that way, Erron."

"Something wrong?" he asks a little too innocently.

"I ... I'm not very good at this. I'm not my mother," I say. "Euh!" I allow myself to let out a groan as I rinse away the first round of leaves and apply the second. "Euuuh!"

"How do you hunt?" he asks.

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," I say. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" he asks.

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," I say.

After three applications and what seems like a bucket of pus, the wound does look better. Now that the swelling has gone down, I can see how deep Cato's sword cut. Right down to the bone.

"What next, kid?" he asks.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?"

I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton. Although, against the sterile bandage, the hem of his undershorts looks filthy and teeming with contagion. I pull out Rue's backpack. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care. I'm sort of a nudist," says Erron. I just know he's grinning.

"You're just like the rest of my family," I say. "I care, all right?" I turn my back and look at the stream until the undershorts splash into the current. He must be feeling a bit better if he can throw.

"You're kind of sad for such a lethal person," says Erron as I beat the shorts clean between two rocks.

I let Erron doze off while his clothes dry out, but by late afternoon, I don't dare wait any longer. I gently shake his shoulder. "Erron, we've got to go now."

"Go?" He seems confused. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," I say. I help him dress, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. "Come on. You can do this."

But he can't. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards down the stream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he's going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area. Of course, I'd love to get him up in a tree, but that's not going to happen. It could be worse though. Some of the rocks form small cavelike structures. I set my sights on one about twenty yards above the stream.

When Erron's able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I'd like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is bloodshot, paper white, panting, and, even though it's only just cooling off, he's shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it.

I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he's not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit.

Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave. The result is unsatisfactory. An animal might not question it, but a human would see hands had manufactured it quickly enough. I tear it down in frustration.

"Takeda," he says. I go over to him and brush the hair back from his eyes. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me if you could," I say. His forehead's burning up. Like the medicine's having no effect at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm scared he's going to die.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back —" he begins.

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," I say.

"I know. But just in case I don't —" he tries to continue.

"No, Erron, I don't even want to discuss it," I say.

"But I —" he insists.

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss his forehead, stopping his words. This is probably overdue anyway. It's the first time I've ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his head are from the fever. I break away and pull the edge of the sleeping bag up around him."You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," he whispers.

I step out in the cool evening air just as the parachute floats down from the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Erron's leg.

Instead I find a pot of hot broth.

Kano couldn't be sending me a clearer message.

One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. "You're supposed to be in love with Kylin, but since that can't happen, romance it up with him, eh? The man's dying. Give me somethin' I can work with!" And he's right. If I want to keep Erron alive, I've got to give the audience something more to care about. Lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.

Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents. The way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods. The way my mother's face would light up at the sound of his boots at the door. The way she almost stopped living when he died.

"Erron!" I say, trying for the special tone that my mother used only with my father. He's dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He's great at this stuff.

I hold up the pot. "Erron, look what Kano has sent you."

Chapter Twenty

Getting the broth into Erron takes an while of coaxing, begging, and threatening, but finally, I just pulled the bottom of his mask up, and sip by sip, he empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots while I watch the daily report in the sky. One casualty, that's it. Still, Erron and I have given the audience a fairly interesting day.

Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night.

I automatically look around for a good tree to nest in before I realize that's over. At least for a while. I can't very well leave Erron unguarded on the ground. I left the scene of his last hiding place on the bank of the stream untouched — how could I conceal it? — and we're a scant fifty yards stream. I put on my glasses, place my weapons in readiness, and settle down to keep watch.

The temperature drops rapidly and soon I'm chilled to the bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with Erron. It's toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I realize it's more than warm, it's overly hot because the bag is reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don't know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead. It seems weak, but I'm afraid to do anything too drastic.

I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Erron, refreshing the bandage, and trying not to dwell on the fact that by teaming up with him, I've made myself far more vulnerable than when I was alone. Tethered to the ground, on guard, with a very injured person to take care of. But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I'm just going to have to trust that whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one.

When the sky turns rosy, I notice the sheen of sweat on Erron's lip and discover the fever has broken. He's not back to normal, but it's come down a few degrees.

Last night, when I was gathering vines, I came upon a bush of Rue's berries. I strip off the fruit and mash it up in the broth pot with cold water.

Erron's struggling to get up when I reach the cave. "I woke up and you were gone," he says. "I was worried about you."

I have to laugh as I ease him back down. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"

"I thought Tempest or Reiko might have found you. They like to hunt at night," he says, still serious.

"Yes, there's just them and us and D'Vorah and Scar," I say.

"Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud," he says. "Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag ... and you." Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his cheek. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Erron picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch.

"No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say. "Hand, cheek, anywhere."

We get him propped up against the wall and he obediently swallows the spoonfuls of the berry mush I feed him. He refuses the groosling again, though.

"You didn't sleep," Erron says.

"I'm all right," I say. But the truth is, I'm exhausted.

"Sleep now. I'll keep watch. I'll wake you if anything happens," he says. I hesitate. "You can't stay up forever, kid."

He's got a point there. I'll have to sleep eventually.

And probably better to do it now when he seems relatively alert and we have daylight on our side. "All right," I say. "But just for a few hours. Then you wake me."

It's too warm for the sleeping bag now. I smooth it out on the cave floor and lie down, one hand on my loaded bow in case I have to shoot at a moment's notice. Erron sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. "Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep.

Too long. I sleep too long. I know from the moment I open my eyes that we're into the afternoon. Erron's right beside me, his position unchanged. I sit up, feeling somehow defensive but better rested than I've been in days.

"Erron, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," I say.

"Why, kid? Nothing's going on here," he says. "Besides I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot."

This, of course, brings on a scowl that I'm sure makes him grin. I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement. I steel myself and unwrap the leg.

My heart drops into my stomach. It's worse, much worse. There's no more pus in evidence, but the swelling has increased and the tight shiny skin is inflamed. Then I see the red streaks starting to crawl up his leg. Blood poisoning. Unchecked, it will kill him for sure. My chewed-up leaves and ointment won't make a dent in it. We'll need strong anti-infection drugs from the Capitol. I can't imagine the cost of such potent medicine. If Kano pooled every donation from every sponsor, would he have enough? I doubt it. Gifts go up in price the longer the Games continue. What buys a full meal on day one buys a cracker on day twelve. And the kind of medicine Erron needs would have been at a premium from the beginning.

"Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say in an unsteady voice.

"I know what blood poisoning is, Takeda," says Erron. "Even if my mother isn't a healer."

"You're just going to have to outlast the others, Erron. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," I say.

"Yes, that's a good plan, kid." he says. But I feel this is mostly for my benefit.

"You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," I say.

"Don't light a fire," he says. "It's not worth it."

"We'll see," I say. As I take the pot down to the stream, I'm struck by how brutally hot it is. I swear the Gamemakers are progressively ratcheting up the temperature in the daytime and sending it plummeting at night. The heat of the sun-baked stones by the stream gives me an idea though. Maybe I won't need to light a fire.

I settle down on a big flat rock halfway between the stream and the cave. After purifying half a pot of water, I place it in direct sunlight and add several egg-size hot stones to the water. I'm the first to admit I'm not much of a cook. But since soup mainly involves tossing everything in a pot and waiting, it's one of my better dishes. I mince groosling until it's practically mush and mash some of Rue's roots.

Fortunately, they've both been roasted already so they mostly need to be heated up. Already, between the sunlight and the rocks, the water's warm. I put in the meat and roots, swap in fresh rocks, and go find something green to spice it up a little. Before long, I discover a tuft of chives growing at the base of some rocks. Perfect. I chop them very fine and add them to the pot, switch out the rocks again, put on the lid, and let the whole thing stew.

I've seen very few signs of game around, but I don't feel comfortable leaving Erron alone while I hunt, so I rig half a dozen snares and hope I get lucky. I wonder about the other tributes, how they're managing now that their main source of food has been blown up. At least three of them, Tempest, Jade, and Skarlet, had been relying on it, but Jade's dead. Probably not Reiko though. Are they fighting each other? Looking for us? Maybe one of them has located us and is just waiting for the right moment to attack. The idea sends me back to the cave.

Erron's stretched out on top of the sleeping bag in the shade of the rocks. Although he brightens a bit when I come in, it's clear he feels miserable. I put cool cloths on his head, but they warm up almost as soon as they touch his skin.

"Do you want anything?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Thank you. Wait, yes. Tell me a story."

"No," I say. "I'm not a good one, and there's nothing to tell." I feel his fever.

The fever's going nowhere but up. "You're a little cooler though."

The sound of the trumpets startles me. I'm on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It's my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he's inviting us to a feast. Well, we're not that hungry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."

I do need something desperately. Something to heal Erron's leg.

"Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance," says Claudius.

There's nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Erron grips my shoulder from behind.

"No," he says."You're not risking your life for me."

"Who said I was?" I say.

"So, you're not going?" he asks.

"Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Tempest and Skarlet and Reiko? Don't be stupid," I say, helping him back to bed."I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there."

"You're such a bad liar, Takeda. I don't know how you've survived this long." He begins to mimic me."You're a little cooler though. Of course, I'm not going. He shakes his head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," he says.

Anger flushes my face. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!"

"I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," he says.

"You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg," I say.

"Then I'll drag myself," says Erron. "You go and I'm going, too, kid."

He's just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to do it. Come howling after me in the woods.

Even if a tribute doesn't find him, something else might. He can't defend himself. I'd probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go myself. And who knows what the exertion will do to him?

"What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" I say. He must know that's not an option. That the audience would hate me. And frankly, I would hate myself, too, if I didn't even try.

"I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go," he says.

We're at something of a stalemate. I know I can't argue him out of this one, so I don't try. I pretend, reluctantly, to go along. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!" I snap at him.

"Agreed. Is it ready?" he asks.

"Wait here," I say. The air's gone cold even though the sun's still up. I'm right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature. I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket. The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot. And actually doesn't taste too bad.

Erron eats without complaint, lifting up his mask, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, which should be encouraging if you don't know what fever does to people. He's like listening to Kano before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely.

As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he's going to die if I don't get to that feast. I'll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he'll be gone. And I'll be here all alone. Again.

Waiting for the others.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Kano has done it! He's gotten the medicine — I don't know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels —and I can save Erron! It's such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Erron. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There's no question, it's sleep syrup. It's a common medicine in District 12, everyone can export it and make quick cash from parents with nagging kids. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone's had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Erron out for a full day, but what good is that? I'm so furious I'm about to throw Kano's last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That's more than I need.

I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won't be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. "I've brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther stream."

Erron opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. "They're very sweet."

"Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth.

"No," he says, almost puzzled. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?"

"Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," I say. Another mouthful goes down.

Just one more to go.

"They're sweet as syrup," he says, taking the last spoonful. "Syrup." His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it's too late, he's already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I've done is unforgivable.

I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. "Who can't lie, Erron?" I say, even though he can't hear me.

It doesn't matter. The rest of Panem can.

Chapter Twenty-one

In the remaining hours before nightfall, I gather rocks and do my best to camouflage the opening of the cave.

It's a slow and arduous process, but after a lot of sweating and shifting things around, I'm pretty pleased with my work, The cave now appears to be part of a larger pile of rocks, like so many in the vicinity. I can still crawl in to Peeta through a small opening, but it's undetectable from the out? side.

That's good, because I'll need to share that sleeping bag again tonight. Also, if I don't make it back from the feast, Peeta will be hidden but not entirely imprisoned. Although I doubt he can hang on much longer without medicine. If I die at the feast, District 12 isn't likely to have a victor.

I make a meal out of the smaller, bonier fish that inhabit the stream down here, fill every water container and purify it, and clean my weapons. I've nine arrows left in all. I debate leaving the knife with Peeta so he'll have some protection while I'm gone, but there's really no point. He was right about camouflage being his final defense. But I still might have use for the knife. Who knows what I'll encounter?

Here are some things I'm fairly certain of. That at least Cato, Clove, and Thresh will be on hand when the feast starts. I'm not sure about face since direct confrontation isn't her style or her forte. She's even smaller than I am and unarmed, unless she's picked up some weapons recently. She'll probably be hanging somewhere nearby, seeing what she can scavenge. But the other three ... I'm going to have my hands full. My ability to kill at a distance is my greatest asset, but I know I'll have to go right into the thick of things to get that backpack, the one with the number 12 on it that Claudius Templesmith mentioned.

I watch the sky, hoping for one less opponent at dawn, but nobody appears tonight. Tomorrow there will be faces up there. Feasts always result in fatalities.

I crawl into the cave, secure my glasses, and curl up next to Peeta. Luckily I had that good long sleep today. I have to stay awake. I don't really think anyone will attack our cave tonight, but I can't risk missing the dawn.

So cold, so bitterly cold tonight. As if the Gamemakers have sent an infusion of frozen air across the arena, which may be exactly what they've done. I lay next to Peeta in the bag, trying to absorb every bit of his fever heat. It's strange to be so physically close to someone who's so distant. Peeta might as well be back in the Capitol, or in District 12, or on the moon right now, he'd be no harder to reach.

I've never felt lonelier since the Games began.

Just accept it will be a bad night,I tell myself. I try not to, but I can't help thinking of my mother and Prim, wondering if they'll sleep a wink tonight. At this late stage in the Games, with an important event like the feast, school will probably be canceled. My family can either watch on that static-filled old clunker of a television at home or join the crowds in the square to watch on the big, clear screens, They'll have privacy at home but support in the square. People will give them a kind word, a bit of food if they can spare it. I wonder if the baker has sought them out, especially now that Peeta and I are a team, and made good on his promise to keep my sister's belly full.

Spirits must be running high in District 12. We so rarely have anyone to root for at this point in the Games. Surely, people are excited about Peeta and me, especially now that we're together. If I close my eyes, I can imagine their shouts at the screens, urging us on. I see their faces — Greasy Sac and Madge and even the Peacekeepers who buy my meat cheering for us.

And Gale. I know him. He won't be shouting and cheering. But he'll be watching, every moment, every twist and turn, and willing me to come home. I wonder if he's hoping that Peeta makes it as well.

Gale's not my boyfriend, but would he be, if I opened that door? He talked about us running away together.

Was that just a practical calculation of our chances of survival away from the district? Or something more?

I wonder what he makes of all this kissing.

Through a crack in the rocks, I watch the moon cross the sky. At what I judge to be about three hours before dawn, I begin final preparations. I'm careful to leave Peeta with water and the medical kit right beside him. Nothing else will be of much use if I don't return, and even these would only prolong his life a short time. After some debate, I strip him of his jacket and zip it on over my own. He doesn't need it. Not now in the sleeping bag with his fever, and during the day, if I'm not there to remove it, he'll be roasting in it. My hands are already stiff from cold, so I take Rue's spare pair of socks, cut holes for my fingers and thumbs, and pull them on. It helps anyway. I fill her small pack with some food, a water bottle, and bandages, tuck the knife in my belt, get my bow and arrows. I'm about to leave when I remember the importance of sustaining the star-crossed lover routine and I lean over and give Peeta a long, lingering kiss. I imagine the teary sighs emanating from the Capitol and pretend to brush away a tear of my own. Then I squeeze through the opening in the rocks out into the night.

My breath makes small white clouds as it hits the air.

It's as cold as a November night at home. One where I've slipped into the woods, lantern in hand, to join Gale at some prearranged place where we'll sit bundled together, sipping herb tea from metal flasks wrapped in quilting, hoping game will pass our way as the morning comes on. Oh, Gale,I think. If only you had my back now ...

I move as fast as I dare. The glasses are quite remarkable, but I still sorely miss having the use of my left ear. I don't know what the explosion did, but it damaged something deep and irreparable. Never mind. If I get home, I'll be so stinking rich, I'll be able to pay someone to do my hearing.

The woods always look different at night. Even with the glasses, everything has an unfamiliar slant to it.

As if the daytime trees and flowers and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places. I don't try anything tricky, like taking a new route. I make my way back up the stream and follow the same path back to Rue's hiding place near the lake. Along the way, I see no sign of another tribute, not a puff of breath, not a quiver of a branch. Either I'm the first to arrive or the others positioned themselves last night. There's still more than an hour, maybe two, when I wriggle into the underbrush and wait for the blood to begin to flow.

I chew a few mint leaves, my stomach isn't up for much more. Thank goodness, I have Peeta's jacket as well as my own. If not, I'd be forced to move around to stay warm. The sky turns a misty morning gray and still there's no sign of the other tributes. It's not surprising really. Everyone has distinguished themselves either by strength or deadliness or cunning. Do they suppose, I wonder, that I have Peeta with me? I doubt face and Thresh even know he was wounded. All the better if they think he's covering me when I go in for the backpack.

But where is it? The arena has lightened enough for me to remove my glasses. I can hear the morning birds singing. Isn't it time? For a second, I'm panicked that I'm at the wrong location. But no, I'm certain I remember Claudius Templesmith specifying the Cornucopia. And there it is. And here I am. So where's my feast?

Just as the first ray of sun glints off the gold Cornucopia, there's a disturbance on the plain. The ground before the mouth of the horn splits in two and a round table with a snowy white cloth rises into the arena. On the table sit four backpacks, two large black ones with the numbers 2 and 11, a medium-size green one with the number 5, and a tiny orange one

— really I could carry it around my wrist — that must be marked with a 12.

The table has just clicked into place when a figure darts out of the Cornucopia, snags the green backpack, and speeds off. face! Leave it to her to come up with such a clever and risky idea! The rest of us are still poised around the plain, sizing up the situation, and she's got hers. She's got us trapped, too, because no one wants to chase her down, not while their own pack sits so vulnerable on the table.

face must have purposefully left the other packs alone, knowing that to steal one without her number would definitely bring on a pursuer. That should have been my strategy! By the lime I've worked through the emotions of surprise, admiration, anger, jealousy, and frustration, I'm watching that dish mane of hair disappear into the trees well out of shooting range.

Huh. I'm always dreading the others, but maybe face is the real opponent here.

She's cost me time, too, because by now it's clear that I must get to the table next. Anyone who beats me to it will easily scoop up my pack and be gone. Without hesitation, I sprint for the table. I can sense the emergence of danger before I see it. Fortunately, the first knife comes whizzing in on my right side so I can hear it and I'm able to deflect it with my bow. I turn, drawing back the bowstring and send an arrow straight at Clove's heart. She turns just enough to avoid a fatal hit, but the point punctures her upper left arm. Unfortunately, she throws with her right, but it's enough to slow her down a few moments, having to pull the arrow from her arm, take in the severity of the wound. I keep moving, positioning the next arrow automatically, as only someone who has hunted for years can do.

I'm at the table now, my fingers closing over the tiny orange backpack. My hand slips between the straps and I yank it up on my arm, it's really too small to fit on any other part of my anatomy, and I'm turning to fire again when the second knife catches me in the forehead. It slices above my right eyebrow, opening a gash that sends a gush running down my face, blinding my eye, filling my mouth with the sharp, metallic taste of my own blood. I stagger backward but still manage to send my readied arrow in the general direction of my assailant. I know as it leaves my hands it will miss. And then Clove slams into me, knocking me flat on my back, pinning my shoulders to the ground, with her knees.

This is it, I think, and hope for Prim's sake it will be fast. But Clove means to savor the moment. Even feels she has time. No doubt Cato is somewhere nearby, guarding her, waiting for Thresh and possibly Peeta.

"Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve? Still hanging on?" she asks.

Well, as long as we're talking I'm alive. "He's out there now. Hunting Cato," I snarl at her. Then I scream at the top of my lungs. "Peeta!"

Clove jams her fist into my windpipe, very effectively cutting off my voice. But her head's whipping from side to side, and I know for a moment she's at least considering I'm telling the truth. Since no Peeta appears to save me, she turns back to me.

"Liar," she says with a grin. "He's nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him. You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in the pretty little backpack? That medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he'll never get it." Clove opens her jacket. It's lined with an impressive array of knives. She carefully selects an almost dainty-looking number with a cruel, curved blade. "I promised Cato if he let me have you, I'd give the audience a good show."

I'm struggling now in an effort to unseat her, but it's no use. She's too heavy and her lock on me too tight.

"Forget it, District Twelve. We're going to kill you.

Just like we did your pathetic little ally ... what was her name? The one who hopped around in the trees?

Rue? Well, first Rue, then you, and then I think we'll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound?" Clove asks. "Now, where to start?"

She carelessly wipes away the blood from my wound with her jacket sleeve. For a moment, she surveys my face, tilting it from side to side as if it's a block of wood and she's deciding exactly what pattern to carve on it. I attempt to bite her hand, but she grabs the hair on the top of my head, forcing me back to the ground. "I think ..." she almost purrs. "I think we'll start with your mouth." I clamp my teeth together as she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of the blade.

I won't close my eyes. The comment about Rue has filled me with fury, enough fury I think to die with some dignity. As my last act of defiance, I will stare her down as long as I can see, which will probably not be an extended period of time, but I will stare her down, I will not cry out. I will die, in my own small way, undefeated.

"Yes, I don't think you'll have much use for your lips anymore. Want to blow Lover Boy one last kiss?" she asks, I work up a mouthful of blood and saliva and spit it in her face. She flushes with rage. "All right then. Let's get started."

I brace myself for the agony that's sure to follow. But as I feel the tip open the first cut at my lip, some great form yanks Clove from my body and then she's screaming. I'm too stunned at first, too unable to process what has happened. Has Peeta somehow come to my rescue? Have the Gamemakers sent in some wild animal to add to the fun? Has a hovercraft inexplicably plucked her into the air?

But when I push myself up on my numb arms, I see it's none of the above. Clove is dangling a foot off the ground, imprisoned in Thresh's arms. I let out a gasp, seeing him like that, towering over me, holding Clove like a rag doll. I remember him as big, but he seems more massive, more powerful than I even recall. If anything, he seems to have gained weight in the arena. He flips Clove around and flings her onto the ground.

When he shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter. "What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?"

Clove is scrambling backward on all fours, like a frantic insect, too shocked to even call for Cato. "No!

No, it wasn't me!"

"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features. "You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?"

"No! No, I —" Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh's hand and loses it.

"Cato!" she screeches. "Cato!"

"Clove!" I hear Cato's answer, but he's too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good. What was he doing? Trying to get face or Peeta? Or had he been lying in wait for Thresh and just badly misjudged his location?

Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove's temple. It's not bleeding, but I can see the dent in her skull and I know that she's a goner. There's still life in her now though, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the low moan escaping her lips.

When Thresh whirls around on me, the rock raised, I know it's no good to run. And my bow is empty, the last loaded arrow having gone in Clove's direction. I'm trapped in the glare of his strange golden brown eyes.

"What'd she mean? About Rue being your ally?"

"I — I — we teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got there first. District One," I say. Maybe if he knows I helped Rue, he won't choose some slow, sadistic end for me.

"And you killed him?" he demands.

"Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers," I say."And I sang her to sleep."

Tears spring in my eyes. The tension, the fight goes out of me at the memory. And I'm overwhelmed by Rue, and the pain in my head, and my fear of Thresh, and the moaning of the dying girl a few feet away.

"To sleep?" Thresh says gruffly.

"To death. I sang until she died," I say. "Your district... they sent me bread." My hand reaches up but not for an arrow that I know I'll never reach. Just to wipe my nose. "Do it fast, okay, Thresh?" Conflicting emotions cross Thresh's face. He lowers the rock and points at me, almost accusingly. "Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we're even then. No more owed. You understand?"

I nod because I do understand. About owing. About hating it. I understand that if Thresh wins, he'll have to go back and face a district that has already broken all the rules to thank me, and he is breaking the rules to thank me, too. And I understand that, for the moment, Thresh is not going to smash in my skull.

"Clove!" Cato's voice is much nearer now. I can tell by the pain in it that he sees her on the ground.

"You better run now, Fire Girl," says Thresh.

I don't need to be told twice. I flip over and my feet dip into the hard-packed earth as I run away from Thresh and Clove and the sound of Cato's voice. Only when I reach the woods do I turn back for an instant. Thresh and both large backpacks are vanishing over the edge of the plain into the area I've never seen. Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment, he will realize it's futile, she can't be saved. I crash into the trees, repeatedly swiping away the blood that's pouring into my eye, fleeing like the wild, wounded creature I am. After a few minutes, I hear the cannon and I know that Clove has died, that Cato will be on one of our trails. Either Thresh's or mine. I'm seized with terror, weak from my head wound, shaking. I load an arrow, but Cato can throw that spear almost as far as I can shoot.

Only one thing calms me down. Thresh has Cato's backpack containing the thing he needs desperately.

If I had to bet, Cato headed out after Thresh, not me.

Still I don't slow down when I reach the water. I plunge right in, boots still on, and flounder stream. I pull off Rue's socks that I've been using for gloves and press them into my forehead, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but they're soaked in minutes.

Somehow I make it back to the cave. I squeeze through the rocks. In the dappled light, I pull the little orange backpack from my arm, cut open the clasp, and dump the contents on the ground. One slim box containing one hypodermic needle. Without hesitating, I jam the needle into Peeta's arm and slowly press down on the plunger.

My hands go to my head and then drop to my lap, slick with blood.

The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green-and-silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III**

 _ **"THE VICTOR"**_

 _Chapter Nineteen_

A sound! Just in front of us! Erron hears it too, and looks at me. We both run in that direction, sensing that the person is running too. I wonder who it is. Reiko, D'Vorah, the Careers? Whoever, we would make quick work of them.

We run quickly, and stop as we see both of the Careers with their backs turned to us. They turn around, and look at us both.

"Well. The Boy on Fire, and the Cowboy," Jade says. "Hear the new rule? This'll be fun, taking you two."

Tempest lunges for me, but before he can get there, I jump out of the way, stuffing his attack with a kick. He falls, dropping to the ground. Jade throws her glaive, but Erron moves out of the way. Jade watches and smiles as the glaive comes back, slucing him in the leg. She then drop kicks him off the cliff we'd been standing on.

He falls, clutching his leg. Blood seeps out of the wound. I throw my whip out at Jade, catching her off guard. It sticks in her stomach, and I throw her into Tempest.

She gets up. "You think you got me?" she asks. "I'll have you begging for mercy in five minutes."

"You will be dead by then," I say.

...

I stand before her as Kotal Kahn speaks. "Finish Her!"

I take my whip, and slice both of her arms off by turning on the blades. Then I stick the last in her mouth, and grin as I activate the blades. They grab her throat, and I pull out, ripping it out. She coughs up chunks of body parts, and falls, choking on her own blood.

"Fatality!" the voice screams. Tempest is nowhere to be found, and I must find Erron. I look at the cliff, seeing that there are trails of blood where he moved. He's still alive. I climb down and start moving towards the ground. I get down, and go on.

Hugging the rocks, I move slowly in the direction of the blood, searching for him. I find a few more bloodstains, but no sign of life. I break down and say his name in a hushed voice. "Erron! Erron!" Then a mockingjay lands on a scruffy tree and begins to mimic my tones so I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down.

My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice.

"You here to finish me off, kid?" I whip around. It's come from the left, so I can't pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak.

Still, it must have been Erron. Who else in the arena would call me kid? My eyes peruse the bank, but there's nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks.

"Erron?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it?

No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Erron?"

"I'm right here, kid," he says. I turn around, and he's on the ground, his leg propped up. I rush over to him, and look at the cut. It's bloody, really bloody. He tried to put some water on it, because there's not as much as there should be. "Wanted me to enjoy my final moments?"

"You're not going to die," I tell him firmly.

"Says who?" His voice is so ragged. His eyes stare into mine, and he seems tired.

"Says me. We're on the same team, you know," I tell him.

His eyes open. "So I see. Nice of you to find what's left of me."

I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. "How bad did she cut you?" I ask.

"No doctor, but I can feel its pretty bad.," he answers.

"Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," I say.

When I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It's only two feet away, how hard can it be? Its hard when I realize he's barely able to move an inch on his own. He's so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he's doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. "Look, Erron, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" I say.

"Excellent, kid," he says.

I crouch down beside him. No matter what happens, I tell myself, don't stop until he's in the water. "On three," I say."One, two, three!" I can only manage one full roll before I have to stop because of the horrible sound he's making. Now he's on the edge of the stream. Maybe this is better anyway.

"Okay, change of plans. I'm not going to put you all the way in," I tell him. Besides, if I get him in, who knows if I'd ever be able to get him out?

"No more rolling?" he asks.

"That's all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?" I say. I've got two water bottles. I prop them against rocks in the stream so that two are always filling while I pour my hand water over Erron's body.

I gently remove his red over shirts and bandoleers, cut into his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife too and drench him again to work it loose. The only thing bad is the cut on his leg and the knot in his other one. His hand was scratched. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Jade did to his leg.

Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he's lying in what's become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy clothes and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the cream to his hand. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he's burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from him and find pills that reduce your temperature. My mother actually breaks down and buys these on occasion when her home remedies fail.

"Swallow these," I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine.

"Thanks. Can I sleep now, kid?" he asks.

"Soon," I promise. "I need to look at your leg first." Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him. I can see the tear Jade's glaive made in the fabric over his thigh. It's disgusting, its bleeding, and there's mud over it, but I have to clean it.

"Pretty awful, huh?" says Erron. He's watching me closely.

"So-so." I shrug like it's no big deal. "You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines." I refrain from saying how I usually clear out of the house whenever she's treating anything worse than a cold. Come to think of it, I don't even much like to be around coughing. "First thing is to clean it well."

I've left on Erron's undershorts because they're not in bad shape and I don't want to pull them over the swollen thigh and, all right, maybe the idea of him being naked makes me uncomfortable. That's another thing about my mother and Khal. Nakedness has no effect on them, gives them no cause for embarrassment. Ironically, at this point in the Games, my little sister would be of far more use to Erron than I am. I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the better the wound looks.

The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well. But the gash on his leg ... what on earth can I do for that?

"Why don't we give it some air and then ..." I trail off.

"And then you'll patch it up?" says Erron. He looks almost sorry for me, as if he knows how lost I am.

"That's right," I say. "In the meantime, you eat these." I put a few dried pear halves in his hand and go back in the stream to wash the rest of his clothes.

When they're flattened out and drying, I examine the contents of the first-aid kit. It's pretty basic stuff.

Bandages, fever pills, medicine to calm stomachs.

Nothing of the caliber I'll need to treat Erron.

"We're going to have to experiment some," I admit. I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg. I tell myself this is a good thing and bite the inside of my cheek hard because my breakfast is threatening to make a reappearance.

"Takeda?" Erron says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words. "How about that kiss?"

I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can't stand it. "I don't roll that way, Erron."

"Something wrong?" he asks a little too innocently.

"I ... I'm not very good at this. I'm not my mother," I say. "Euh!" I allow myself to let out a groan as I rinse away the first round of leaves and apply the second. "Euuuh!"

"How do you hunt?" he asks.

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," I say. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" he asks.

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," I say.

After three applications and what seems like a bucket of pus, the wound does look better. Now that the swelling has gone down, I can see how deep Jade's glaive cut. Right down to the bone.

"What next, kid?" he asks.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?"

I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton. Although, against the sterile bandage, the hem of his undershorts looks filthy and teeming with contagion. I pull out Rue's backpack. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care. I'm sort of a nudist," says Erron. I just know he's grinning.

"You're just like the rest of my family," I say. "I care, all right?" I turn my back and look at the stream until the undershorts splash into the current. He must be feeling a bit better if he can throw.

"You're kind of sad for such a lethal person," says Erron as I beat the shorts clean between two rocks.

I let Erron doze off while his clothes dry out, but by late afternoon, I don't dare wait any longer. I gently shake his shoulder. "Erron, we've got to go now."

"Go?" He seems confused. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," I say. We get up, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. "Come on. You can do this."

But he can't. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards down the stream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he's going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area. Of course, I'd love to get him up in a tree, but that's not going to happen. It could be worse though. Some of the rocks form small cavelike structures. I set my sights on one about twenty yards above the stream.

When Erron's able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I'd like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is bloodshot, paper white, panting, and, even though it's only just cooling off, he's shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it.

I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he's not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit.

Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave. The result is unsatisfactory. An animal might not question it, but a human would see hands had manufactured it quickly enough. I tear it down in frustration.

"Takeda," he says. I go over to him and brush the hair back from his eyes. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me if you could," I say. His forehead's burning up. Like the medicine's having no effect at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm scared he's going to die.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back —" he begins.

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," I say.

"I know. But just in case I don't —" he tries to continue.

"No, Erron, I don't even want to discuss it," I say.

"But I —" he insists.

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss his forehead, stopping his words. This is probably overdue anyway. It's the first time I've ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his head are from the fever. I break away and pull the edge of the sleeping bag up around him."You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," he whispers.

I step out in the cool evening air just as the parachute floats down from the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Erron's leg.

Instead I find a pot of hot broth.

Kano couldn't be sending me a clearer message.

One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. "You're supposed to be in love with Kylin, but since that can't happen, romance it up with him, eh? The man's dying. Give me somethin' I can work with!" And he's right. If I want to keep Erron alive, I've got to give the audience something more to care about. Lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.

Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents. The way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods. The way my mother's face would light up at the sound of his boots at the door. The way she almost stopped living when he died.

"Erron!" I say, trying for the special tone that my mother used only with my father. He's dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He's great at this stuff.

I hold up the pot. "Erron, look what Kano has sent you."

Chapter Twenty

Getting the broth into Erron takes an while of coaxing, begging, and threatening, but finally, I just pulled the bottom of his mask up, and sip by sip, he empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots while I watch the daily report in the sky. One casualty, that's it. Still, Erron and I have given the audience a fairly interesting day.

Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night.

I automatically look around for a good tree to nest in before I realize that's over. At least for a while. I can't very well leave Erron unguarded on the ground. I left the scene of his last hiding place on the bank of the stream untouched — how could I conceal it? — and we're a scant fifty yards stream. I put on my glasses, place my weapons in readiness, and settle down to keep watch.

The temperature drops rapidly and soon I'm chilled to the bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with Erron. It's toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I realize it's more than warm, it's overly hot because the bag is reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don't know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead. It seems weak, but I'm afraid to do anything too drastic.

I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Erron, refreshing the bandage, and trying not to dwell on the fact that by teaming up with him, I've made myself far more vulnerable than when I was alone. Tethered to the ground, on guard, with a very injured person to take care of. But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I'm just going to have to trust that whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one.

When the sky turns rosy, I notice the sheen of sweat on Erron's lip and discover the fever has broken. He's not back to normal, but it's come down a few degrees.

Last night, when I was gathering vines, I came upon a bush of Rue's berries. I strip off the fruit and mash it up in the broth pot with cold water.

Erron's struggling to get up when I reach the cave. "I woke up and you were gone," he says. "I was worried about you."

I have to laugh as I ease him back down. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"

"I thought Tempest or Reiko might have found you. They like to hunt at night," he says, still serious.

"Yes, there's just them and us and D'Vorah and Scar," I say.

"Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud," he says. "Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag ... and you." Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his cheek. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Erron picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch.

"No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say. "Hand, cheek, anywhere."

We get him propped up against the wall and he obediently swallows the spoonfuls of the berry mush I feed him. He refuses the groosling again, though.

"You didn't sleep," Erron says.

"I'm all right," I say. But the truth is, I'm exhausted.

"Sleep now. I'll keep watch. I'll wake you if anything happens," he says. I hesitate. "You can't stay up forever, kid."

He's got a point there. I'll have to sleep eventually.

And probably better to do it now when he seems relatively alert and we have daylight on our side. "All right," I say. "But just for a few hours. Then you wake me."

It's too warm for the sleeping bag now. I smooth it out on the cave floor and lie down, one hand on my loaded bow in case I have to shoot at a moment's notice. Erron sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. "Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep.

Too long. I sleep too long. I know from the moment I open my eyes that we're into the afternoon. Erron's right beside me, his position unchanged. I sit up, feeling somehow defensive but better rested than I've been in days.

"Erron, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," I say.

"Why, kid? Nothing's going on here," he says. "Besides I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot."

This, of course, brings on a scowl that I'm sure makes him grin. I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement. I steel myself and unwrap the leg.

My heart drops into my stomach. It's worse, much worse. There's no more pus in evidence, but the swelling has increased and the tight shiny skin is inflamed. Then I see the red streaks starting to crawl up his leg. Blood poisoning. Unchecked, it will kill him for sure. My chewed-up leaves and ointment won't make a dent in it. We'll need strong anti-infection drugs from the Capitol. I can't imagine the cost of such potent medicine. If Kano pooled every donation from every sponsor, would he have enough? I doubt it. Gifts go up in price the longer the Games continue. What buys a full meal on day one buys a cracker on day twelve. And the kind of medicine Erron needs would have been at a premium from the beginning.

"Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say in an unsteady voice.

"I know what blood poisoning is, Takeda," says Erron. "Even if my mother isn't a healer."

"You're just going to have to outlast the others, Erron. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," I say.

"Yes, that's a good plan, kid." he says. But I feel this is mostly for my benefit.

"You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," I say.

"Don't light a fire," he says. "It's not worth it."

"We'll see," I say. As I take the pot down to the stream, I'm struck by how brutally hot it is. I swear the Gamemakers are progressively ratcheting up the temperature in the daytime and sending it plummeting at night. The heat of the sun-baked stones by the stream gives me an idea though. Maybe I won't need to light a fire.

I settle down on a big flat rock halfway between the stream and the cave. After purifying half a pot of water, I place it in direct sunlight and add several egg-size hot stones to the water. I'm the first to admit I'm not much of a cook. But since soup mainly involves tossing everything in a pot and waiting, it's one of my better dishes. I mince groosling until it's practically mush and mash some of Rue's roots.

Fortunately, they've both been roasted already so they mostly need to be heated up. Already, between the sunlight and the rocks, the water's warm. I put in the meat and roots, swap in fresh rocks, and go find something green to spice it up a little. Before long, I discover a tuft of chives growing at the base of some rocks. Perfect. I chop them very fine and add them to the pot, switch out the rocks again, put on the lid, and let the whole thing stew.

I've seen very few signs of game around, but I don't feel comfortable leaving Erron alone while I hunt, so I rig half a dozen snares and hope I get lucky. I wonder about the other tributes, how they're managing now that their main source of food has been blown up. At least three of them, Tempest, Jade, and Skarlet, had been relying on it, but Jade's dead. Probably not Reiko though. Are they fighting each other? Looking for us? Maybe one of them has located us and is just waiting for the right moment to attack. The idea sends me back to the cave.

Erron's stretched out on top of the sleeping bag in the shade of the rocks. Although he brightens a bit when I come in, it's clear he feels miserable. I put cool cloths on his head, but they warm up almost as soon as they touch his skin.

"Do you want anything?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Thank you. Wait, yes. Tell me a story."

"No," I say. "I'm not a good one, and there's nothing to tell." I feel his fever.

The fever's going nowhere but up. "You're a little cooler though."

The sound of the trumpets startles me. I'm on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It's my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he's inviting us to a feast. Well, we're not that hungry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."

I do need something desperately. Something to heal Erron's leg.

"Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance," says Claudius.

There's nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Erron grips my shoulder from behind.

"No," he says."You're not risking your life for me."

"Who said I was?" I say.

"So, you're not going?" he asks.

"Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Tempest and Skarlet and Reiko? Don't be stupid," I say, helping him back to bed."I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there."

"You're such a bad liar, Takeda. I don't know how you've survived this long." He begins to mimic me."You're a little cooler though. Of course, I'm not going. He shakes his head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," he says.

Anger flushes my face. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!"

"I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," he says.

"You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg," I say.

"Then I'll drag myself," says Erron. "You go and I'm going, too, kid."

He's just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to do it. Come howling after me in the woods.

Even if a tribute doesn't find him, something else might. He can't defend himself. I'd probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go myself. And who knows what the exertion will do to him?

"What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" I say. He must know that's not an option. That the audience would hate me. And frankly, I would hate myself, too, if I didn't even try.

"I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go," he says.

We're at something of a stalemate. I know I can't argue him out of this one, so I don't try. I pretend, reluctantly, to go along. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!" I snap at him.

"Agreed. Is it ready?" he asks.

"Wait here," I say. The air's gone cold even though the sun's still up. I'm right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature. I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket. The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot. And actually doesn't taste too bad.

Erron eats without complaint, lifting up his mask, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, which should be encouraging if you don't know what fever does to people. He's like listening to Kano before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely.

As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he's going to die if I don't get to that feast. I'll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he'll be gone. And I'll be here all alone. Again.

Waiting for the others.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Kano has done it! He's gotten the medicine — I don't know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels —and I can save Erron! It's such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Erron. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There's no question, it's sleep syrup. It's a common medicine in District 12, everyone can export it and make quick cash from parents with nagging kids. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone's had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Erron out for a full day, but what good is that? I'm so furious I'm about to throw Kano's last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That's more than I need.

I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won't be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. "I've brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther stream."

Erron opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. "They're very sweet."

"Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth.

"No," he says, almost puzzled. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?"

"Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," I say. Another mouthful goes down.

Just one more to go.

"They're sweet as syrup," he says, taking the last spoonful. "Syrup." His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it's too late, he's already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I've done is unforgivable.

I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. "Who can't lie, Erron?" I say, even though he can't hear me.

It doesn't matter. The rest of Panem can.

Chapter Twenty-one

In the remaining hours before nightfall, I gather rocks and do my best to camouflage the opening of the cave.

It's a slow and arduous process, but after a lot of sweating and shifting things around, I'm pretty pleased with my work, The cave now appears to be part of a larger pile of rocks, like so many in the vicinity. I can still crawl in to Erron through a small opening, but it's undetectable from the outside.

That's good, because I'll need to share that sleeping bag again tonight. Also, if I don't make it back from the feast, Erron will be hidden but not entirely imprisoned. Although I doubt he can hang on much longer without medicine. If I die at the feast, District 2 isn't likely to have a victor.

I make a meal out of the smaller, bonier fish that inhabit the stream down here, fill every water container and purify it, and clean my weapons. I've nine arrows left in all. I debate leaving the knife with Erron so he'll have some protection while I'm gone, but there's really no point. He was right about camouflage being his final defense. But I still might have use for the knife. Who knows what I'll encounter?

Here are some things I'm fairly certain of. That at least Skarlet, Tempest, and Reiko will be on hand when the feast starts. My ability to kill at a distance is my greatest asset, but I know I'll have to go right into the thick of things to get that backpack, the one with the number 2 on it that Claudius Templesmith mentioned.

I watch the sky, hoping for one less opponent at dawn, but nobody appears tonight. Tomorrow there will be faces up there. Feasts always result in fatalities.

I crawl into the cave, secure my glasses, and curl up next to Erron. Luckily I had that good long sleep today. I have to stay awake. I don't really think anyone will attack our cave tonight, but I can't risk missing the dawn.

So cold, so bitterly cold tonight. As if the Gamemakers have sent an infusion of frozen air across the arena, which may be exactly what they've done. I lay next to Erron in the bag, trying to absorb every bit of his fever heat. It's strange to be so physically close to someone who's so distant. Erron might as well be back in the Capitol, or in District 12, or on the moon right now, he'd be no harder to reach.

I've never felt lonelier since the Games began.

Just accept it will be a bad night, I tell myself. I try not to, but I can't help thinking of my mother and Khal, wondering if they'll sleep a wink tonight. At this late stage in the Games, with an important event like the feast, school will probably be canceled. My family can either watch on that static-filled old clunker of a television at home or join the crowds in the square to watch on the big, clear screens, They'll have privacy at home but support in the square. People will give them a kind word, a bit of food if they can spare it. I wonder if the baker has sought them out, especially now that Erron and I are a team, and made good on his promise to keep my sister's belly full.

Spirits must be running high in District 2. We so rarely have anyone to root for at this point in the Games. Surely, people are excited about Erron and me, especially now that we're together. If I close my eyes, I can imagine their shouts at the screens, urging us on. I see their faces — Greasy Sac and even the Peacekeepers who buy my meat cheering for us.

And Jin. I know him. He won't be shouting and cheering. But he'll be watching, every moment, every twist and turn, and willing me to come home. I wonder if he's hoping that Erron makes it as well.

Jin's not my boyfriend, nor do I really think I like men, but would he be, if I opened that door? He talked about us running away together.

Was that just a practical calculation of our chances of survival away from the district? Or something more?

I wonder what he makes of all this kissing.

Through a crack in the rocks, I watch the moon cross the sky. At what I judge to be about three hours before dawn, I begin final preparations. I'm careful to leave Erron with water and the medical kit right beside him. Nothing else will be of much use if I don't return, and even these would only prolong his life a short time. I fill my small pack with some food, a water bottle, and bandages, tuck the knife in my belt, get my bow and arrows. I'm about to leave when I remember that I may well never see Erron Black again. I lean over and give Erron a long, lingering kiss. I imagine the teary sighs emanating from the Capitol and brush away a tear of my own. Then I squeeze through the opening in the rocks out into the night.

My breath makes small white clouds as it hits the air.

It's as cold as a November night at home. One where I've slipped into the woods, lantern in hand, to join Jin at some prearranged place where we'll sit bundled together, sipping herb tea from metal flasks wrapped in quilting, hoping game will pass our way as the morning comes on. Oh, Jin, I think. If only you had my back now ...

I move as fast as I dare. The glasses are quite remarkable, but I still sorely miss having the use of my left ear. I don't know what the explosion did, but it damaged something deep and irreparable. Never mind. If I get home, I'll be so stinking rich, I'll be able to pay someone to do my hearing.

The woods always look different at night. Even with the glasses, everything has an unfamiliar slant to it.

As if the daytime trees and flowers and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places. I don't try anything tricky, like taking a new route. I make my way back up the stream and follow the same path back to Rue's hiding place near the lake. Along the way, I see no sign of another tribute, not a puff of breath, not a quiver of a branch. Either I'm the first to arrive or the others positioned themselves last night. There's still more than an hour, maybe two, when I wriggle into the underbrush and wait for the blood to begin to flow.

I chew a few mint leaves, my stomach isn't up for much more. The sky turns a misty morning gray and still there's no sign of the other tributes. It's not surprising really. Everyone has distinguished themselves either by strength or deadliness or cunning. Do they suppose, I wonder, that I have Erron with me? I doubt Skarlet and Reiko even know he was wounded. All the better if they think he's covering me when I go in for the backpack.

But where is it? The arena has lightened enough for me to remove my glasses. I can hear the morning birds singing. Isn't it time? For a second, I'm panicked that I'm at the wrong location. But no, I'm certain I remember Claudius Templesmith specifying the Cornucopia. And there it is. And here I am. So where's my feast?

Just as the first ray of sun glints off the gold Cornucopia, there's a disturbance on the plain. The ground before the mouth of the horn splits in two and a round table with a snowy white cloth rises into the arena. On the table sit four backpacks, two large black ones with the numbers 5 and 7, a medium-size green one and a large green each with the number 3, and a tiny orange one — really I could carry it around my wrist — that must be marked with a 2.

The table has just clicked into place when a figure darts out of the Cornucopia, looks at and snags the medium backpack, and speeds off. Skarlet! Leave it to her to come up with such a clever and risky idea! The rest of us are still poised around the plain, sizing up the situation, and she's got hers. She's got us trapped, too, because no one wants to chase her down, not while their own pack sits so vulnerable on the table.

Scar must have purposefully left the other packs alone, knowing that to steal one without her number would definitely bring on a pursuer. That should have been my strategy! By the lime I've worked through the emotions of surprise, admiration, anger, jealousy, and frustration, I'm watching that dish mane of hair disappear into the trees well out of shooting range.

Huh. I'm always dreading the others, but maybe Scar is the real opponent here.

She's cost me time, too, because by now it's clear that I must get to the table next. Anyone who beats me to it will easily scoop up my pack and be gone. Without hesitation, I sprint for the table. I can sense the emergence of danger before I see it. I turn, drawing back the bowstring and send an arrow straight at D'Vorah's heart. She turns just enough to avoid a fatal hit, but the point punctures her upper left arm. It's enough to slow her down a few moments, having to pull the arrow from her arm, take in the severity of the wound. I keep moving, positioning the next arrow automatically, as only someone who has hunted for years can do.

I'm at the table now, my fingers closing over the tiny orange backpack. My hand slips between the straps and I yank it up on my arm, it's really too small to fit on any other part of my anatomy, and I'm turning to fire again when the knife catches me in the forehead. It slices above my right eyebrow, opening a gash that sends a gush running down my face, blinding my eye, filling my mouth with the sharp, metallic taste of my own blood. I stagger backward but still manage to send my readied arrow in the general direction of my assailant. I know as it leaves my hands it will miss. And then D'Vorah slams into me, knocking me flat on my back, pinning my shoulders to the ground, with her knees.

This is it, I think, and hope for Khal's sake it will be fast. But D'Vorah means to savor the moment. Even feels she has time.

"Where's your partner, Takahashi?" she asks.

Well, as long as we're talking I'm alive. "He's out there now. Hunting Tempest," I snarl at her. Then I scream at the top of my lungs. "Erron!"

D'Vorah jams her fist into my windpipe, very effectively cutting off my voice. But her head's whipping from side to side, and I know for a moment she's at least considering I'm telling the truth. Since no Erron appears to save me, she turns back to me.

"Liar," she says with a grin. "He's nearly dead. Jade knows where she has cut him. You have him strapped up in a tree while you try to keep his heart going. But that doesn't matter. I will unleash my bugs on him. As I shall soon be doing to you."

I'm struggling now in an effort to unseat her, but it's no use. She's too heavy and her lock on me too tight.

"No worries. We're going to kill you. Just like we did your pathetic little ally ... what was his name? Ky? Well, first Ky, then you, and then I think we'll just let my bugs take care of Erron. How does that sound?" D'Vorah asks. "Now, where to start?"

She carelessly wipes away the blood from my wound with her hand. For a moment, she surveys my face, tilting it from side to side as if it's a block of wood and she's deciding exactly what pattern to carve on it. I attempt to bite her hand, but she grabs the hair on the top of my head, forcing me back to the ground. "I think ..." she almost purrs. "I think we'll start with your mouth." I clamp my teeth together as she teasingly traces the outline of my lips with the tip of one of her back pincers.

I won't close my eyes. The comment about Kylin has filled me with fury, enough fury I think to die with some dignity. As my last act of defiance, I will stare her down as long as I can see, which will probably not be an extended period of time, but I will stare her down, I will not cry out. I will die, in my own small way, undefeated.

"Yes, I don't think you'll have much use for your lips anymore. Want to blow Black one last kiss?" she asks, I work up a mouthful of blood and saliva and spit it in her face. She flushes with rage. "All right then. Let's get started."

I brace myself for the agony that's sure to follow. But as I feel her breath start to spit, some great form yanks D'Vorah from my body and then she's screaming. I'm too stunned at first, too unable to process what has happened. Has Erron somehow come to my rescue? Have the Gamemakers sent in some wild animal to add to the fun? Has a hovercraft inexplicably plucked her into the air?

But when I push myself up on my numb arms, I see it's none of the above. D'Vorah is dangling a foot off the ground, imprisoned in Reiko's arms. I let out a gasp, seeing him like that, towering over me, holding D'Vorah like a rag doll. I remember him as big, but he seems more massive, more powerful than I even recall. If anything, he seems to have gained weight in the arena. He flips D'Vorah around and flings her onto the ground.

When he shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter. "What'd you do to that little boy? You kill him?"

D'Vorah is scrambling backward on all fours, like the frantic insect she was, too shocked to even call for Tempest. "No! No, it wasn't me!"

"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features. "You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?"

"No! No, I —" D'Vorah sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Reiko's hand and loses it.

"Tempest!" she screeches. "Tempest!"

"D'Vorah!" I hear Tempest's answer, but he's too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good. What was he doing? Trying to get Skarlet or Erron? Or had he been lying in wait for Reiko and just badly misjudged his location?

Reiko brings the rock down hard against D'Vorah's temple. It's not bleeding, but I can see the dent in her skull and I know that she's a goner. There's still life in her now though, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the scream escaping her lips.

"D'Vorah!" Tempest's voice is much nearer now. I can tell by the pain in it that he sees her on the ground.

"You better run now, Fire Boy," says Reiko.

I don't need to be told twice. I overlook the table, seeing that D'Vorah's pack is still intact. I flip over and my feet dip into the hard-packed earth as I run away from Reiko and D'Vorah and the sound of Tempest's voice. I grab her pack, as well as the mysterious 5, which must be for Erron. Then I only run away. Only when I reach the woods do I turn back for an instant. Reiko and the large backpacks are vanishing over the edge of the plain into the area I've never seen. Tempest kneels beside D'Vorah, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment, he will realize it's futile, she can't be saved. I crash into the trees, repeatedly swiping away the blood that's pouring into my eye, fleeing like the wild, wounded creature I am. After a few minutes, I hear the cannon and I know that D'Vorah has died, that Tempest will be on one of our trails. Either Reiko's or mine. I'm seized with terror, weak from my head wound, shaking. I load an arrow, but Tempest can throw that spear almost as far as I can shoot.

Only one thing calms me down. Reiko has Tempest's backpack containing the thing he needs desperately.

If I had to bet, Tempest headed out after Reiko, not me.

Still I don't slow down when I reach the water. I plunge right in, boots still on, and flounder stream.

Somehow I make it back to the cave. I squeeze through the rocks. In the dappled light, I pull the little orange backpack from my arm, cut open the clasp, and dump the contents on the ground. One slim box containing one hypodermic needle. Without hesitating, I jam the needle into Erron's arm and slowly press down on the plunger.

My hands go to my head and then drop to my lap, slick with blood.

The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green-and-silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist.

Chapter Twenty-two

The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I'm vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I'm allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I've been asleep a long time. My mother's hand strokes my cheek and I don't push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don't trust her. Then there's a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother's, and I'm scared.

"Takeda," it says. "Takeda, can you hear me?" My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I'm not home, not with my mother. I'm in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better."Erron."

"Hey," he says. "Good to see your eyes again."

"How long have I been out?" I ask.

"Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood," he says. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything."

I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Erron holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily.

"You're better," I say.

"Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick," he says. "By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone."

He doesn't seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I'm just too beat-up and I'll hear about it later when I'm stronger. But for the moment, he's all gentleness.

"Did you eat?" I ask.

"I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet," he says.

"No, it's good. You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon,"I say.

"Not too soon, all right?" he says. "You just let me take care of you for a while."

I don't really seem to have much choice. Erron feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin.

"Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather's not helping much," he says. There's a clap of thunder, and I see lightning electrify the sky through an opening in the rocks. Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Erron has built a sort of canopy over my head an upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rock above me.

"I wonder what brought on this storm? I mean, who's the target?" says Erron.

"Tempest and Reiko," I say without thinking. "Scar will be in her den somewhere, and D'Vorah ... she cut me and then ..."My voice trails off.

"I know D'Vorah's dead. I saw it in the sky last night," he says. "Did you kill her?"

"No. Reiko broke her skull with a rock," I say.

"Lucky he didn't catch you, too," says Erron.

The memory of the feast returns full-force and I feel sick. "He did. But he let me go."

Erron says. "So, Tempest and Reiko, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?"

But the thought only upsets me. "I think we would like Reiko. I think he'd be our friend back in District Two," I say.

"Then let's hope Tempest kills him, so we don't have to,"says Erron grimly.

I don't want Tempest to kill Reiko at all. I don't want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that victors go around saying in the arena.

Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes.

Erron looks at me in concern. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?"

I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a terminal one. "I want to go home, Erron," I say plaintively, like a small child.

"You will. I promise," he says, and bends over to give me a kiss.

"I want to go home now," I say.

"Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," Erron says. "Okay?"

"Okay," I whisper. "Wake me if you need me to keep watch."

"I'm good and rested, thanks to you and Kano. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" he says.

What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite it brings us? The Games themselves? I don't know, but I'm I'm too sad and tired to ask.

It's evening when Erron wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Erron has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I'm absolutely famished. So is Erron. It's clear he's been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started.

There's not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small mishmash of roots, and a handful of dried fruit.

"Should we try and ration it?" Erron asks.

"No, let's just finish it. The groosling's getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick offspoilt food," I say, dividing the food into two equal piles. We try and eat slowly, but we're both so hungry were done in a couple of minutes. My stomach is in no way satisfied. "Tomorrow's a hunting day," I say.

"I won't be much help with that, kid," Erron says. "My legs sucks ass."

"I'll kill and you cook," I say. "And you can always gather."

"I wish there was some sort of bread out there," says Erron.

"The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm," I say with a sigh. "Here, chew these." I hand him a couple of mint leaves and pop a few in my own mouth.

It's hard to even see the projection in the sky, but it's clear enough to know there were no more deaths today. So Tempest and Reiko haven't had it out yet.

"Where did Reiko go? I mean, what's on the far side of the circle?" I ask Erron.

"A field. As far as you can see it's full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don't know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors. But there are no paths," says Erron.

"I bet some of them are grain. I bet Reiko knows which ones, too," I say. "Did you go in there?"

"No. Nobody really wanted to track Reiko down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand," Erron says. "There could be anything in there." I don't say so but Erron's words remind me of the warnings they give us about not going beyond the fence in District 12. I can't help, for a moment, comparing him with Jin, who would see that field as a potential source of food as well as a threat. Reiko certainly did. It's not that Erron's soft exactly, and he's proved he's not a coward. But there are things you don't question too much, I guess, when your home always smells like baking bread, whereas Jin questions everything. What would Erron think of the irreverent banter that passes between us as we break the law each day? Would it shock him? The things we say about Panem? Jin's tirades against the Capitol?

"Maybe there is a bread bush in that field," I say."Maybe that's why Reiko looks better fed now than when we started the Games."

"Either that or he's got very generous sponsors," says Erron. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Kano to send us some bread."

I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn't know about the message Kano sent us a couple of nights ago. One kiss equals one pot of broth. It's not the sort of thing I can blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all.

Somehow, believably, I've got to get things back on track. Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand.

"Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," I say mischievously.

"Yeah, about that," says Erron, entwining his fingers in mine. "Don't try something like that again."

"Or what?" I ask.

"Or ... or ..." He can't think of anything good."Just give me a minute, kid."

"What's the problem?" I say with a grin.

"The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing,"says Erron.

"I did do the right thing," I say.

"No! Just don't, Takeda!" His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there's real anger in his voice. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?"

I'm startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up.

"Maybe I did it for myself, Erron, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who ... who worries about ... what it would be like if..." I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Erron. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Erron hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.

"If what, Takeda?" he says softly.

I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I'm feeling, it's no one's business but mine.

"That's exactly the kind of topic Kano told me to steer clear of," I say evasively, although Kano never said anything of the kind. In fact, he's probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Erron somehow catches it.

"Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says, and moves in to me.

This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of.

Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another.

But I don't get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it's just a light one on the tip of my nose because Erron's been distracted. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," he says.

My socks are dry enough to wear now. I make Erron put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it's likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won't agree unless I'm in the bag, too, and I'm shivering so hard that it's pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Erron was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe.

With the aid of the glasses, I lie watching the drips of water splatter on the cave floor. Rhythmic and lulling.

Several times, I drift off briefly and then snap awake, guilty and angry with myself. After three or four hours, I can't help it, I have to rouse Erron because I can't keep my eyes open. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Tomorrow, when it's dry, I'll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace," I promise as I drift off.

But tomorrow is no better in terms of weather. The deluge continues as if the Gamemakers are intent on washing us all away. The thunder's so powerful it seems to shake the ground. Erron's considering heading out anyway to scavenge for food, but I tell him in this storm it would be pointless. He won't be able to see three feet in front of his face and he'll only end up getting soaked to the skin for his troubles. He knows I'm right, but the gnawing in our stomachs is becoming painful.

The day drags on turning into evening and there's no break in the weather. Kano is our only hope, but nothing is forthcoming, either from lack of money — everything will cost an exorbitant amount — or because he's dissatisfied with our performance.

Probably the latter. I'd be the first to admit we're not exactly riveting today. Starving, weak from injuries, trying not to reopen wounds. We're sitting huddled together wrapped in the sleeping bag, yes, but mostly to keep warm. The most exciting thing either of us does is nap.

I'm not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I've never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn't enough anymore clearly because if it was we'd have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Kano isn't just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I'm rotten at it, but Erron's not. I love him, but... he makes me rather nervous. So, without speaking, I lean in.

Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there's no other sound. Erron peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, he's out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there's a feast — fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Johnny Cage was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer.

Erron wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun.

"I guess Kano finally got tired of watching us starve."

"I guess so," I answer.

But in my head I can hear Kano's smug, if slightly exasperated, words, "Yes, that's what I'm liking a lot, love."

Chapter Twenty-three

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Erron's voice stops me. "We better take it slow on that stew, kid."

"You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!" I say regretfully. But I don't. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even sent us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. "I want more."

"Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving," Erron says.

"Agreed," I say. "It's going to be a long hour."

"Maybe not that long," says Erron. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me ... no competition ... best thing that ever happened to you ..."

"I don't remember that last part," I say, hoping it's too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush.

"Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," he says. "Scoot over, I'm freezing."

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel him press up against me, and it embarrases me in a way, the way his hands touched me, the nakedness of him, that I had to ask a question.

"Erron?" I ask him.

He shifts so that he can push up himself and look at me. "What, kid?"

I'm glad he can't see me blush. "Have you... ever had sex?"

For what seems like an eternity, he stares at me. Doesn't speak, just stares. Then he opens his mouth again. "Yeah, kid." He sits up. "Why?"

I blush even harder, thankful for the darkness. "I... Erron... Umm..."

"You want me to fuck you, kid?" he asks. Why did he have to jump straight to the point?

"Well, see... that's the problem. It doesn't make sense. My friends... they said only a man and woman can have sex." I know my mother probably wants to kill me right now.

"Well, kid, they lied," he says. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "When you truly are ready for that we might venture down that path. But not now, kid."

I come down to lay with him again, realizing that he is now pressing his friend up against me. I chuckle, and drift off to sleep as he presses closer to me.

I waleup, and once again, Erron has gone. His clothes are still inside, as are mine, so did he... go out wearing only his undershorts? Wow. Then I see that those are my clothes bunched up, however his over shirt... and shirt in general are still there. So only his pants and bandoleers were taken. Cool. He'll look nice for everyone that's not me.

About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. I'm dishing up two more small servings of lamb stew and rice, when I hear the anthem begin to play. I press my eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky.

There won't be anything to see tonight, I think, far more interested in the stew than the sky. But something I see makes me afraid, more scared than ever.

"Reiko is dead," the sky says.

He can't be. He got away, I saw him get away! Did Tempest kill him? They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it.

I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand. Reiko dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful one, too. But I'm not happy. All I can think about is Reiko letting me go.

As I look, I hear screaming. It's Tempest.

I peek out again, seeing Erron and Tempest fighting. Tempest. He's spinning his spear around, but Erron, Erron is fighting back. He has his guns at the ready, slapping him at any time. They fighting gets heated, when Tempest blows him on the ground. The rain falls on him, and Tempest is about to finish him, when an arrow pierces his arm.

He looks at me, who has his bow locked and ready. I shoot another arrow, but he lifts up and flies away. I look at Erron, who has gotten to his feet and come running at me, squeezing in.

I almost start crying, feeling his wet body pressed up against mine, knowing I almost lost him. He holds me, telling me he is okay. Then he lets go, but I lower his head to mine, remove his mask, and kiss him. As we kiss, I feel over his body, the hard, shaped muscles of his arms, the washboard stomach he possesses, and the legs covered by the pants. He presses me up against the wall, and I moan into his mouth, "I am ready."

"Then let us not delay." He grabs the chest of my armor, fumbling for what removes it, the three straps, and undoes them. The straps and chest come off, leaving my chest exposed. He feels all around me, and while my chest isn't as chiseled as his, it has its share of strength.

He makes quick work of removing the bandoleers that adorn his chest, lifting them over his head for a second, then returns to my lips. He lifts me up, placing me on the pile of clothes. He then gets to work on the rest of my armor, removing everything that would stop him from seeing me. Then, he pulls down his pants, leaving only his undershorts. "Would you do the honors, kid?"

My hands move slowly towards his waist, removing his undershorts, pulling them down, and I can see that he was ready. I was too.

He kicks them off, once again kissing me, pushing me onto the bed, laying on top of me, kissing me senseless. I can feel him nibble on my lip, and I push his head closer to me, forcing his body to fuse with mine, pressing him deeper on me.

He brings his hand down between my legs, grabbing me, rubbing me. I'm confused; his hand is wet, but unles he peed on me, it couldn't have gotten wet.

Erron slides down, and rubs my chest, while engulfing me in his mouth. It feels strange, like an itch I want to scratch, but feels really good too. I cannot stop the loud, deep moans that come out of my mouth. I feel ecstatic that he is doing this to me, and I feel something deep inside myself, explode, then I'm peeing inside Erron's mouth.

Erron slurps deliciously on my pee, then removes himself from me. He them comes back up to me, kissing me, and I can taste it on his tongue. Salty.

With the pleasure he has given me, I want to give it back to him. I slide down to him, and grab him by the base.

Boy was he big! He was really long, two of my fists couldn't reach the end. And he was thick too, my hand barely fit around. I tentatively took my first lick. I tasted nothing, so that must be a good sign. I try to fit in in my mouth, and moans from Erron tell me I am doing it right. I lick that spot that he kept licking that made me feel really good, and Erron moaned even more, responding to my touch. I wet him as much as possible, licking all over it, and I feel him tense up, and I let go, and I watch him start peeing. A white liquid comes out of the end, which I watch with interest. I crawl back up to Erron. He pushes me down, spreading my legs. I lie on my stomach, wondering what to do next.

He spits on my opening, and suddenly, I feel the head pressed against me. I have come so far, done so much, but at this point, I feel so frail. I want him. I want him now.

"I am ready," I say again.

I must stifle my cries as he presses his massiveness into me. Its painful, as it spreads my opening wider than it ever has been, even wider than the feces I passed at home.

"Erron," I cry, and he stops and starts to kiss my neck.

"I'm so sorry Takeda..." Erron says. "I should have told you..."

I can feel the head start to pull away, but I stop him. "No, I want this," I say. "I want you inside me, to fill me up to the brim, to show me everything."

I flip over, his head falling out. Erron is now facing me, and I move back under him. "Kiss me," I ask. He bends down to kiss me. I capture his lips, and feel him shift over me. I lift my feet up, wrapping them around his back. He takes this as his gesture to move. He presses it in me again, and I feel the pain, but his lips on mine stifle the moans and grunts we both make.

It makes its way farther down into me, sliding deep into my slippery cavern, when he stops. His kisses go all over my neck, forehead, making me feel better. He rests his hand on my cheek. "Everything will be fine, Takeda. No one will ever hurt you, so long as I'm around."

I placed my hand on top of his cheek, and say, "I know, Erron. I love you."

And I mean it. I love this man with every bit of my heart, every fiber of my being loves Erron Black. I feel him move again, and the pain has subsided, and it almost feels good. As he pushes farther inside me, he presses this spot deep inside me, sending ripples of pleasure through my body. I want more.

"Faster, Erron." I say, telling him to go faster.

He slides out of me, only to push it deeper in my core. He kisses me, bringing me back to the present. He presses faster, pushing deeper, touching that spot in me faster and faster.

I moan deeply, Erron pressing inside me so fast I don't know how many times he's moved. I grab onto his huge biceps, running my hands up and down them, feeling Erron's lips.

Then, he hits that spot he's been pressing up against, and I moan in pure ecstacy. Erron looks at me. "You enjoy that one?"

I nod, and he presses against it again, forcing me to moan once again. He increases his pressure, going deeper against me, starting to move like a jackhammer in and out of me. I'm rocking back and forward as he drives faster than a bull. He kisses me ferociously, asserting his dominance over me.

Then he gets up, taking me off the cock. I whimper as he stand up, leaving me alone. He stares at me, saying, "You wanna finish or what?"

I stand up, and he kisses me again, pressing me up against the wall, making me hold on as he pushes into me again, and magically, it feels like he's going deeper! I moan again, and feel his tongue run up my back, licking the rain from his sleek body on me. He gives my ass a smack, and through the heat of the moment, it actually feels nice.

I turn around, and he kisses me, sucking and licking my lips. He wraps his hand around my cock, jerking it hard and fast, the spit on his hands drying up, but some liquid cane out of me that let him keep going. I felt it. I was going to release again.

"Erron..." I say, and he understands. He jerks even faster, and moves his hips faster, pulling mine back with his free hand. I cannot hold it in anymore, and explode.

His hand starts slowing down, but his hips move even faster. He starts panting, and, just like when I was licking it, it tenses up, and he starts moaning and grunting even louder, almost yelling, trying to keep it down so no one will hear. I can feel some liquid splash on the inside of my ass, squirting and splashing. There's so much, I can't believe it. He pulls out while he's still squirting, and it goes all over my back and ass. He's jerking himself, then sticks it back in me, riding it out.

I can feel it shrinking inside me, so he pulls out and falls on his back. I feel exhausted, so I come and lay on top of him. He grabs my legs and pulls me all the way up, so that I'm sitting on his face. Then, he licks his juices from my ass and back, which I squirm around during. It feels weird and different. But I enjoy it.

Finally, he sets me down beside him, both of us moaning, but at this point we just cuddle. I run my finger down in between each of his abs, and the runs his finger over my face, coming to rest at my mouth. He lightly presses, and I let my tongue out to play, and it swallows his finger up and brings him into its house. He feels around, and the little light I can see with, he is smiling. His finger leaves my mouth, for it tastes salty, and travels down to my ass, massassging it, fingering it. My hand comes to his back, and from what I can feel, his back is very sexy. I just love toned backs.

"You enjoy that one?" he asks. I look at him.

"What do you think?" Before he can respond, another clunk appears. I go outside, seeing it is a box, about as big as the backpack for Districts 5 and 7. Ironically, there is a 5 on it, so it's from Erron's sponsors. I bring it inside, open it, and find a wadded up...

"A blow-up bed?" Erron asks. "Couldn't have sent that sooner? These rocks were kinda hard..."

"Oh shut up and help me," I say, and we start to blow up the bed, and somehow, it's big, big enough that Erron and I could sleep on it together. And it was weird, because it had two sheets on it, but on the mattress, you needed to unzip the sheets, then zip them back up, kinda like a campng bag. I let him in, then get in myself.

"Ooh, feels nice," I say. "Feels better than your arms, even," I say.

He smiles, turning me around. "Hilarious. Where were we again? Oh. Yes. I think we both enjoyed that one." He brushed my hair with his fingers. "You agree?"

I laugh. "You're so funny. I hate sex and never wanna do it again. Not even on this bed."

Erron wrapped his powerful arms around me pulling me close to him, making me feel his long long John press against me. "Then next time, I'll have to use force." His hands go down to cup my asscheeks. "You have an exquisite ass."

"I've been told that quite a bit, Erron," I say, reaching back to pull his arms back around me, turning around so that I can do the same. I push my leg in between his, loving the security I feel in his arms. "I still worry about the others." I speak. "What if one of us-"

"Shut up," Erron says. "Don't even speak about it. Anyways, maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," says Erron.

I nod at him, giving him one final kiss. then dozing off to sleep.

...

When Erron wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad, kid," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half."

"Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Khal makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm."

Before I even finish, he's pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring.

Huh. Someone isn't over that orgasmic pleasure...

He suddenly gets up, looking at me. "I'm gonna go... do stuff." I can see his wood sticking up, and I know what that, "stuff," is.

"Have fun," I say, grinning. "Make sure to call my name out loud and good."

He throws on his pants, grabs his guns, and walks out. "I'll see if I can't shoot anything."

Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. Erron comes back, and while the bulge in his pants has gone down, it is still noticable. He blames me for doing this to him.

A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Jin and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours.

How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted.

Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To me. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Khal would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then ... what? What would my life be like on a daily basis?

Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Kano, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Khal. Well, for the time being. And then ... I don't want to think about then, when Khal has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Erron's masked face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? Will we marry and... be gay?

Discomfort uses me to move. I scoot over and shake Erron's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.

"We're wasting hunting time," I say when I finally break away.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. "So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?"

"Not us," I say. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."

"Count me in," Erron says. But I can see he's surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. "All this?"

"We'll earn it back today," I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it's one of the best things I've ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. "I can feel Mileena shuddering at my manners."

"Mileena... she your chooser? And manners person, kid?" I nod, and he says, "Well, fuck you Mileena, watch this." He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making the loud, slurping noises he made on me. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, "We miss ya."

"Stop! Tempest could be right outside our cave." He grabs my hand away.

"What do I care? I've got you to protect me now," says Erron, pulling me to him.

"Come on," I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss.

Once we're packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to serious. It's as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain and Tempest's preoccupation with Reiko, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts. Now, although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we're really back in the Games. My last seven arrows— of the twelve I sacrificed three in the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I can't afford to lose any more.

"He'll be hunting us by now," says Erron. "Tempest isn't one to wait for his prey to wander by."

"If he's wounded —" I begin.

"It won't matter," Erron breaks in. "If he can move, he's coming."

With all the rain, the stream has run its banks by several feet on either side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven't seen many animals or signs of them in this area.

"If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds," I say.

"Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do," Erron says.

"Keep an eye out," I say. "Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in leaving him tracks to follow." While my hearing is coming back, I don't know how much stronger it can get.

My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the bleeding has stopped. I wear my headband around my head though, just in case physical exertion should bring it back.

The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we're back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor.

Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with Rue, I've shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too strong. Eventually, we come to a rest.

"What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" he says, mimicking my tone.

"Just don't go far, in case you need help." I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won't last long. I'll just go a short distance and hope Tempest is a long way off.

I teach him a bird whistle — not a melody like Rue's but a simple two-note whistle — which we can use to communicate that we're all right. Fortunately, he's good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off.

I feel like I'm eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Erron, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him though, the woods come alive with animal sounds.

Reassured by his periodic whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat squirrel to show for it. I decide it's enough. I can set snares and maybe get some fish. With Erron's roots, this will be enough for now.

As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven't exchanged signals in a while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it.

But where is he?

"Erron!" I call out in a panic. "Erron!" I turn to the rustle of brush and almost send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into the foliage.

My fear comes out as anger. "What are you doing?"

"I found some berries down by the stream, kid," he says. "What's with you?"

"I whistled. Why didn't you whistle back?"

"I didn't hear. The water's too loud, I guess," he says.

He crosses and puts his hands on my shoulders.

That's when I feel that I'm trembling.

"I thought Tempest killed you!" I almost shout.

"No, I'm fine." Erron wraps his arms around me, but I don't respond. "Takeda?"

I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. We trek back... and the food is gone. "You ate it?"

"What? No, I didn't," Erron says.

"Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese," I say.

"I don't know what ate the cheese, kid. You're just on a rampage," Erron says slowly and distinctly, as if trying not to lose his temper, "but it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?"

I would actually, but I don't want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at them. I've never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These aren't Rue's berries, although they resemble them.

Nor do they match any I learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between my fingers.

My father's voice comes back to me. "Not these, Takeda. Never these. They're nightlock. You'll be dead before they reach your stomach."

Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Erron to collapse to the ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards or so away. What's left of Scar's emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see the red glint of her hair in the sunlight.

I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese... .

Erron has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree."Climb. He'll be here in a second. We'll stand a better chance fighting him from above."

I stop him, suddenly calm. "No, Erron, she's your kill, not Tempest's."

"What? I haven't even seen her since the first day," he says. "How could I have killed her?" In answer, I hold out the berries.

Chapter Twenty-four

It takes a while to explain the situation to Erron. How face stole the food from the supply pile before I blew it up, how she tried to take enough to stay alive but not enough that anyone would notice it, how she wouldn't question the safety of berries we were preparing to eat ourselves.

"I wonder how she found us," says Erron.

"We would have both been dead, too, if she hadn't eaten the berries first." He checks himself. "No, of course, we wouldn't. You recognized them, didn't you?"

I give a nod. "We call them nightlock."

"Even the name sounds deadly," he says. "I'm sorry, Takeda. I really thought they were the same ones you'd gathered."

"Don't apologize. It just means we're one step closer to home, right?" I ask.

"I'll get rid of the rest," Erron says. He gathers up the sheet of blue plastic, careful to trap the berries inside, and goes to toss them into the woods.

"Wait!" I cry. I find the leather pouch and fill it with a few handfuls of berries from the plastic. "If they fooled face, maybe they can fool Tempest as well. If he's chasing us or something, we can act like we accidentally drop the pouch and if he eats them—"

"Then hello District Two," says Erron.

"That's it," I say, securing the pouch to my belt. "Wait, District Two?"

He nods. "I love ya, kid. I'm gonna move in with you, in the Victors Village. My kids can have my farm. They'll have millions. But I'll have you."

I kiss his cheek, and we keep walking.

"He'll know where we are now," says Erron. "If he was anywhere nearby and saw that hovercraft, he'll know we killed her and come after us."

Erron's right. This could be just the opportunity Tempest's been waiting for. But even if we run now, there's the meat to cook and our fire will be another sign of our whereabouts. "Let's make a fire. Right now." I begin to gather branches and brush.

"Are you ready to face him?" Erron asks.

"I'm ready to eat. Better to cook our food while we have the chance. If he knows we're here, he knows. But he also knows there's two of us and probably assumes we were hunting Scar. That means you're recovered. And the fire means we're not hiding, we're inviting him here. Would you show up?" I ask.

"Maybe not," he says.

Erron's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals. We take turns gathering greens and keeping a careful watch for Tempest, but as I anticipated, he doesn't make an appearance.

When the food's cooked, I pack most of it up, leaving us each a rabbit's leg to eat as we walk.

I want to move higher into the woods, climb a good tree, and make camp for the night, but Erron resists.

"I can't climb like you, Takeda, especially with my leg, and I don't think I could ever fall asleep fifty feet above the ground."

"It's not safe to stay in the open, Erron," I say.

"Can't we go back to the cave?" he asks. "It's near water and easy to defend."

I reach up and give him a kiss. "Sure. Let's go back to the cave."

He looks pleased and relieved. "Well, that was easy." I work my arrow out of the oak, careful not to damage the shaft. These arrows are food, safety, and life itself now.

We toss a bunch more wood on the fire. It should be sending off smoke for a few more hours, although I doubt Tempest assumes anything at this point. When we reach the stream, I see the water has dropped considerably and moves at its old leisurely pace, so I suggest we walk back in it. Erron's happy to oblige. It's a long walk back to the cave though, even going downward, even with the rabbit to give us a boost. We're both exhausted by our hike today and still way too underfed. I keep my bow loaded, both for Tempest and any fish I might see, but the stream seems strangely empty of creatures.

By the time we reach our destination, our feet are dragging and the sun sits low on the horizon. We fill up our water bottles and climb the little slope to our den. It's not much, but out here in the wilderness, it's the closest thing we have to a home. It will be warmer than a tree, too, because it provides some shelter from the wind that has begun to blow steadily in from the west. I set a good dinner out, but halfway through Erron begins to nod off. After days of inactivity besides sex, the hunt has taken its toll. I order him onto the bed and set aside the rest of his food for when he wakes. He drops off immediately. I pull the sheet up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I'm so grateful that he's still here, not dead by the stream as I'd thought.

So glad that I don't have to face Tempest alone.

Brutal, bloody Tempest who can snap a neck with a twist of his arm, who had the power to manipulate air, with the power to kill Kung Lao and Reiko. He probably has had a special hatred for me ever since I outscored him in training. A boy like Erron would simply shrug that off. But I have a feeling it drove Tempest to distraction. Which is not that hard. I think of Kung Lao, and his ridiculous reaction to finding the supplies blown up. The others were upset, of course, but he was completely unhinged. Even with all his anger, Tempest killed him.

The sky lights up with the seal, and I watch Scar shine in the sky and then disappear from the world forever. He hasn't said it, but I don't think Erron felt good about killing her, even if it was essential. I can't pretend I'll miss her, but I have to admire her. My guess is if they had given us some sort of test, she would have been the smartest of all the tributes. If, in fact, we had been setting a trap for her, I bet she'd have sensed it and avoided the berries. It was Erron's own ignorance that brought her down. I've spent so much time making sure I don't underestimate my opponents that I've forgotten it's just as dangerous to overestimate them as well.

That brings me back to Tempest. But while I think I had a sense of Scar, who she was and how she operated, he's a little more slippery. Powerful, well trained, but smart? I don't know. Not like she was.

And utterly lacking in the control Skarlet demonstrated. I believe Tempest could easily lose his judgment in a fit of temper. Not that I can feel superior on that point. I think of the moment I sent the arrow flying into the apple in the pig's mouth when I was so enraged. Maybe I do understand Tempest better than I think.

Despite the fatigue in my body, my mind's alert, so I let Erron sleep long past our usual switch. In fact, a soft gray day has begun when I shake his shoulder.

He looks out, almost in alarm. "I slept the whole night. That's not fair, Takeda, you should have woken me."

I stretch and burrow down into the bag. "I'll sleep now. Wake me if anything interesting happens." Apparently nothing does, because when I open my eyes, bright hot afternoon light gleams through the rocks. "Any sign of our friend?" I ask.

Erron shakes his head. "No, he's keeping a disturbingly low profile."

"How long do you think we'll have before the Gamemakers drive us together?" I ask.

"Well, face died almost a day ago, so there's been plenty of time for the audience to place bets and get bored. I guess it could happen at any moment," says Erron.

"Yeah, I have a feeling today's the day," I say. I sit up and look out at the peaceful terrain. "I wonder how they'll do it."

Erron remains silent. There's not really any good answer.

"Well, until they do, no sense in wasting a hunting day. But we should probably eat as much as we can hold just in case we run into trouble," I say.

Erron packs up our gear while I lay out a big meal.

The rest of the rabbits, roots, greens, the rolls spread with the last bit of cheese. The only thing I leave in reserve is the squirrel and the apple.

By the time we're done, all that's left is a pile of rabbit bones. My hands are greasy, which only adds to my growing feeling of grubbiness. Maybe we don't bathe daily in the Seam, but we keep cleaner than I have of late. Except for my feet, which have walked in the stream, and have gotten clean.

Leaving the cave has a sense of finality about it. I don't think there will be another night in the arena somehow. One way or the other, dead or alive, I have the feeling I'll escape it today. I give the rocks a pat good-bye and we head down to the stream to wash up. I can feel my skin, itching for the cool water. I'm wondering if we might even be able to give our clothes a quick scrub when we reach the stream. Or what used to be the stream. Now there's only a bone-dry bed. I put my hand down to feel it.

"Not even a little damp. They must have drained it while we slept," I say. A fear of the cracked tongue, aching body and fuzzy mind brought on by my previous dehydration creeps into my consciousness.

Our bottles and skin are fairly full, but with two drinking and this hot sun it won't take long to deplete them.

"The lake," says Erron. "That's where they want us to go."

"Maybe the ponds still have some," I say hopefully.

"We can check," he says, but he's just humoring me.

I'm humoring myself because I know what I'll find when we return to the pond where I soaked my leg. A dusty, gaping mouth of a hole. But we make the trip anyway just to confirm what we already know.

"You're right. They're driving us to the lake," I say.

Where there's no cover. Where they're guaranteed a bloody fight to the death with nothing to block their view. "Do you want to go straightaway or wait until the water's tapped out?"

"Let's go now, while we've had food and rest. Let's just go end this thing," he says.

I nod. It's funny. I feel almost as if it's the first day of the Games again. That I'm in the same position.

Twenty-one tributes are dead, but I still have yet to kill Tempest. And really, wasn't he always the one to kill?

Now it seems the other tributes were just minor obstacles, distractions, keeping us from the real battle of the Games. Tempest and me.

But no, there's the boy waiting beside me. I feel his arms wrap around me.

"Two against one. Should be a piece of cake," he says.

"Next time we eat, it will be in the Capitol," I answer.

"You bet it will," he says.

We stand there a while, locked in an embrace, feeling each other, the sunlight, the rustle of the leaves at our feet. Then without a word, we break apart and head for the lake.

We stop to rest for a few moments under the tree where the Careers trapped me. The husk of the tracker jacker nest, beaten to a pulp by the heavy rains and dried in the burning sun, confirms the location. I touch it with the tip of my boot, and it dissolves into dust that is quickly carried off by the breeze. I can't help looking up in the tree where D'Vorah secretly perched, waiting to save my life. Tracker jackers. Glimmer's bloated body. The terrifying hallucinations ...

"Let's move on," I say, wanting to escape the darkness that surrounds this place. Erron doesn't object.

Given our late start to the day, when we reach the plain it's already early evening. There's no sign of Tempest. No sign of anything except the gold Cornucopia glowing in the slanting sun rays. Just in case Tempest decided to pull a Skarlet on us, we circle the Cornucopia to make sure it's empty. Then obediently, as if following instructions, we cross to the lake and fill our water containers.

I frown at the shrinking sun. "We don't want to fight him after dark. There's only the one pair of glasses." Erron carefully squeezes drops of iodine into the water."Maybe that's what he's waiting for. What do you want to do? Go back to the cave?"

"Either that or find a tree. But let's give him another half an hour or so. Then we'll take cover," I answer.

We sit by the lake, in full sight. There's no point in hiding now. In the trees at the edge of the plain, I can see the mockingjays flitting about. Bouncing melodies back and forth between them like brightly colored balls. As the notes overlap, they compliment one another, forming a lovely, unearthly harmony.

For a while, I just close my eyes and listen, mesmerized by the beauty of the song. Then something begins to disrupt the music. Runs cut off in jagged, imperfect lines. Dissonant notes intersperse with the melody. The mockingjays' voices rise up in a shrieking cry of alarm.

We're on our feet, Erron wielding his knife, me poised to shoot, when Tempest smashes through the trees and bears down on us. He has no spear. In fact, his hands are empty, yet he runs straight for us. My first arrow hits his chest and inexplicably falls aside.

"He's got some kind of body armor!" I shout to Erron.

Just in time, too, because Tempest is upon us. I brace myself, but he rockets right between us with no attempt to check his speed. I can tell from his panting, the sweat pouring off his purplish face, that he's been running hard a long time. Not toward us.

From something. But what?

My eyes scan the woods just in time to see the first creature leap onto the plain. As I'm turning away, I see another half dozen join it. Then I am stumbling blindly after Tempest with no thought of anything but to save myself.

Chapter Twenty-five

Muttations. No question about it. I've never seen these mutts, but they're no natural-born animals.

They resemble huge wolves, but what wolf lands and then balances easily on its hind legs? What wolf waves the rest of the pack forward with its front paw as though it had a wrist? These things I can see at a distance. Up close, I'm sure their more menacing attributes will be revealed.

Tempest has made a beeline for the Cornucopia, and without question I follow him. If he thinks it's the safest place, who am I to argue? Besides, even if I could make it to the trees, it would be impossible for Erron to outrun them on that leg — Erron! My hands have just landed on the metal at the pointed tail of the Cornucopia when Erron stumbles out of the woods.

He's about fifteen yards behind me, running faster than I was, but the mutts are closing in on him fast. I send an arrow into the pack and one goes down, but there are plenty to take its place.

Erron's waving me up the horn, "Go, Takeda! Go!" He's right. I can't protect either of us on the ground. I start climbing, scaling the Cornucopia on my hands and feet. The pure gold surface has been designed to resemble the woven horn that we fill at harvest, so there are little ridges and seams to get a decent hold on. But after a day in the arena sun, the metal feels hot enough to blister my hands.

Tempest lies on his side at the very top of the horn, twenty feet above the ground, gasping to catch his breath as he gags over the edge. Now's my chance to finish him off. I stop midway up the horn and load another arrow, but just as I'm about to let it fly, I hear Erron cry out. I twist around and see he's just reached the tail, and the mutts are right on his heels.

"Climb!" I yell. Erron starts up hampered by not only the leg but the knife in his hand. I shoot my arrow down the throat of the first mutt that places its paws on the metal. As it dies the creature lashes out, inadvertently opening gashes on a few of its companions. That's when I get a look at the claws.

Four inches and clearly razor-sharp.

Erron reaches my feet and I grab his arm and pull him along. Then I remember Tempest waiting at the top and whip around, but he's doubled over with cramps and apparently more preoccupied with the mutts than us. He coughs out something unintelligible. The snuffling, growling sound coming from the mutts isn't helping.

"What?" I shout at him.

"He said, 'Can they climb it?'" answers Erron, who has climbed up to the top. I give him a frightened hug.

The mutts are beginning to assemble. As they join together, they raise up again to stand easily on their back legs giving them an eerily human quality. Each has a thick coat, some with fur that is straight and sleek, others curly, and the colors vary from jet black to what I can only describe as blond. There's something else about them, something that makes the hair rise up on the back of my neck, but I can't put my finger on it.

They put their snouts on the horn, sniffing and tasting the metal, scraping paws over the surface and then making high-pitched yipping sounds to one another. This must be how they communicate because the pack backs up as if to make room. Then one of them, a good-size mutt with silky waves of dark-blond fur takes a running start and leaps onto the horn. Its back legs must be incredibly powerful because it lands a mere ten feet below us, its pink lips pulled back in a snarl. For a moment it hangs there, and in that moment I realize what else unsettled me about the mutts. The green eyes glowering at me are unlike any dog or wolf, any canine I've ever seen. They are unmistakably human.

And that revelation has barely registered when I notice the collar with the number 2 inlaid with jewels and the whole horrible thing hits me. The hair, the eyes, the number ... it's Kylin.

A shriek escapes my lips and I'm having trouble holding the arrow in place. I have been waiting to fire, only too aware of my dwindling supply of arrows.

Waiting to see if the creatures can, in fact, climb. But now, even though the mutt has begun to slide backward, unable to find any purchase on the metal, even though I can hear the slow screeching of the claws like nails on a blackboard, I fire into its throat.

Its body twitches and flops onto the ground with a thud.

"Takeda?" I can feel Erron's grip on my arm.

"It's him!" I get out.

"Who?" asks Erron.

My head snaps from side to side as I examine the pack, taking in the various sizes and colors. The small one with the red coat and amber eyes ...

Skarlet! And there, the ashen hair and hazel eyes of the boy from District 9 who died as we struggled for the backpack! And worst of all, the largest mutt, with dark glossy fur, huge eyes and a collar that reads 1 in woven straw. Teeth bared in hatred.

Jade...

"What is it, Takeda?" Erron shakes my shoulder.

"It's them. It's all of them. The others. D'Vorag and Scar and ... all of the other tributes," I choke out.

I hear Erron's gasp of recognition. "What did they do to them? You don't think ... those could be their real eyes?"

Their eyes are the least of my worries. What about their brains? Have they been given any of the real tributes memories? Have they been programmed to hate our faces particularly because we have survived and they were so callously murdered? And the ones we actually killed ... do they believe they're avenging their own deaths?

Before I can get this out, the mutts begin a new assault on the horn. They've split into two groups at the sides of the horn and are using those powerful hindquarters to launch themselves at us. A pair of teeth ring together just inches from my hand and then I hear Erron cry out, feel the yank on his body, the heavy weight of man and mutt pulling me over the side. If not for the grip on my arm, he'd be on the ground, but as it is, it takes all my strength to keep us both on the curved back of the horn. And more tributes are coming.

"Kill it, Erron! Kill it!" I'm shouting, and although I can't quite see what's happening, I know he must have stabbed the thing because the pull lessens. I'm able to haul him back onto the horn where we drag ourselves toward the top where the lesser of two evils awaits.

Tempest has still not regained his feet, but his breathing is slowing and I know soon he'll be recovered enough to come for us, to hurl us over the side to our deaths.

I arm my bow, but the arrow ends up taking out a mutt that can only be Tanya. Who else could jump so high? I feel a moment's relief because we must finally be up above the mutt line and I'm just turning back to face Tempest when Erron's jerked from my side.

I'm sure the pack has got him until his blood splatters my face.

Tempest stands before me, almost at the lip of the horn, holding Erron in some kind of headlock, cutting off his air. Erron's clawing at Tempest's arm, but weakly.

I aim one of my last two arrows at Tempest's head, knowing it'll have no effect on his trunk or limbs, which I can now see are clothed in a skintight, flesh-colored mesh. Some high-grade body armor from the Capitol. Was that what was in his pack at the feast? Body armor to defend against my arrows? Well, they neglected to send a face guard.

Tempest just laughs. "Shoot me and he goes down with me."

He's right. If I take him out and he falls to the mutts, Erron is sure to die with him. We've reached a stalemate. I can't shoot Tempest without killing Erron, too. He can't kill Erron without guaranteeing an arrow in his brain. We stand like statues, both of us seeking an out.

My muscles are strained so tightly, they feel they might snap at any moment. My teeth clenched to the breaking point. The mutts go silent and the only thing I can hear is the blood pounding in my good ear.

Erron's lips are turning blue. If I don't do something quickly, he'll die of asphyxiation and then I'll have lost him and Tempest will probably use his body as a weapon against me. In fact, I'm sure this is Tempest's plan because while he's stopped laughing, his lips are set in a triumphant smile.

As if in a last-ditch effort, Erron raises his fingers up to Tempest's arm. I drop my bow, as if I'm surrendering. I look at Erron.

Instead of trying to wrestle his way free, his forefinger veers off and makes a deliberate X on the back of Tempest's hand. Tempest realizes what it means exactly one second after I do. I can tell by the way the smile drops from his lips. But it's one second too late because, by that time, my whiphead is piercing his hand. He cries out and reflexively releases Erron who slams back against him. For a horrible moment, I think they're both going over. I force my whip to come, bringing Erron to fall on the floor, and I swing Tempest off the side.

We hear him hit, the air leaving his body on impact, and then the mutts attack him. Erron and I hold on to each other, waiting for the cannon, waiting for the competition to finish, waiting to be released. But it doesn't happen. Not yet. Because this is the climax of the Hunger Games, and the audience expects a show.

I don't watch, but I can hear the snarls, the growls, the howls of pain from both human and beast as Tempest takes on the mutt pack. I can't understand how he can be surviving until I remember the body armor protecting him from ankle to neck and I realize what a long night this could be. Tempest must have a knife or sword or something, too, something he had hidden in his clothes, because on occasion there's the death scream of a mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade collides with the golden horn. The combat moves around the side of the Cornucopia, and I know Tempest must be attempting the one maneuver that could save his life — to make his way back around to the tail of the horn and rejoin us. But in the end, despite his remarkable strength and skill, he is simply overpowered.

I don't know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so, when Tempest hits the ground and we hear the mutts dragging him, dragging him back into the Cornucopia. Now they'll finish him off, I think. But there's still no cannon.

Night falls and the anthem plays and there's no picture of Tempest in the sky, only the faint moans coming through the metal beneath us. The icy air blowing across the plain reminds me that the Games are not over and may not be for who knows how long, and there is still no guarantee of victory.

The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think about it, is saying something. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Tempest, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at him. After a very short time, I don't care who he is or what he's done, all I want is for his suffering to end.

"Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Erron.

"You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him.

And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers' point of view, this is the final word in entertainment.

It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change.

There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn.

Erron begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I'll go completely insane. He's fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it's hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape.

But the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can't let him go. I just can't.

The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Erron begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.

Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Erron's face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.

Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Tempest's voice.

"I think he's closer now. Takeda, can you shoot him?"Erron asks.

If he's near the mouth, I may be able to take him out.

It would be an act of mercy at this point.

So I free the arrow, rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Erron's hands grip me for support.

It takes a few moments to find Tempest in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is please.

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Erron pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty.

"Did you get him?" he whispers.

The cannon fires in answer.

"Then we won, Takeda," he says hollowly.

"Hurray for us," I get out, but there's no joy of victory in my voice.

A hole opens in the plain and as if on cue, the remaining mutts bound into it, disappearing as the earth closes above them.

We wait, for the hovercraft to take Tempest's remains, for the trumpets of victory that should follow, but nothing happens.

"Hey!" I shout into air. "What's going on?" The only response is the chatter of waking birds.

"Maybe it's the body. Maybe we have to move away from it," says Erron.

I try to remember. Do you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on the final kill? My brain is too muddled to be sure, but what else could be the reason for the delay?

"Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?" I ask.

"Think I better try," says Erron. We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Erron even move? I rise first, swinging and bending my arms and legs until I think I can help him up. Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Erron and bring a second to my lips.

A mockingjay gives the long, low whistle, and tears of relief fill my eyes as the hovercraft appears and takes Tempest's body away. Now they will take us. Now we can go home.

But again there's no response.

"What are they waiting for?" says Erron weakly.

Between the loss of the tourniquet and the effort it took to get to the lake, his wound has opened up again.

"I don't know," I say. Whatever the holdup is, I can't watch him lose any more blood. I get up to find a stick but almost immediately come across the arrow that bounced off Tempest's body armor. It will do as well as the other arrow. As I stoop to pick it up, Claudius Templesmith's voice booms into the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed, now that the number has shrunken down farther than 4," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

There's a small burst of static and then nothing more.

I stare at Erron in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. There is no 4 victors. No 2 victors. Just one.

"If you think about it, it's not that surprising," he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he's moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt —

Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart.

Erron raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame.

"No," he says. "Do it." Erron limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands.

"I can't, I say. "I won't."

"Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Tempest," he says.

"Then you shoot me," I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. "You shoot me and go home and live with it! Go back to your farm, to those kids..." And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two.

"You know I can't," Erron says, discarding the weapons. "Fine, I'll go first anyway." He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final barrier between his blood and the earth.

"No, you can't kill yourself," I say. I'm on my knees, desperately plastering the bandage back onto his wound.

"Takeda," he says. "It's what I want."

"You're not leaving me here alone," I say. Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out.

"Listen," he says pulling me to my feet. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around.

We both know they have to have a victor.

Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces.

They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country.

If Erron and I were both to die, or they thought we were ...

My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Erron sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist.

"No, I won't let you."

"Trust me," I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm.

Then I fill my own. "On the count of three?" Erron leans down and kisses me once, very gently.

"The count of three," he says.

We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight.

I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Erron's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One." Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare.

The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Takeda Takahashi and Erron Black! I give you — the tributes of District Two!"

Chapter Twenty-six

I spew the berries from my mouth, wiping my tongue with the end of my shirt to make sure no juice remains. Erron pulls me to the lake where we both flush our mouths with water and then collapse into each other's arms. "Didn't swallow any. You?"

"Guess I'd be dead by now if I did," I say. I can see his lips moving in reply, but I can't hear him over the roar of the crowd in the Capitol that they're playing live over the speakers.

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Erron. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Erron can hang on for the whole ride.

My fingers are still gripping the back of his overshirt so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of red fabric. He rubs my forehead, leaving me. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Erron's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him.

Some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage.

I stare at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, and I sip it, thanking him for the drink.

Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Erron, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stops twice.

It's like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Khal, they wear that same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I'm held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave?

Why do they stay to watch?

And now I know. It's because you have no choice.

The next thing I know we've landed back on the roof of the Training Center and they're taking Erron but leaving me behind the door. I think I just catch a glimpse of pink fabric — it must be Mileena, it has to be Mileena coming to my rescue — when the needle jabs me from behind.

When I wake, I'm afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I'm in a room containing just my bed. No doors, no windows are visible. The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I'm naked, but the bedclothes arc soothing against my skin. I tentatively lift my left hand above the cover.

Not only has it been scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips, the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and am just running my fingers through my silken hair when I freeze. Apprehensively I ruffle the hair by my left ear.

No, it wasn't an illusion. I can hear completely again.

I try and sit up, but some sort of wide restraining band around my waist keeps me from rising more than a few inches. The physical confinement makes me panic and I'm trying to pull myself up and wriggle my hips through the band when a portion of the wall slides open and in steps the redheaded Avox girl carrying a tray. The sight of her calms me and I stop trying to escape. I want to ask her a million questions, but I'm afraid any familiarity would cause her harm. Obviously I am being closely monitored.

She sets the tray across my thighs and presses something that raises me to a sitting position. While she adjusts my pillows, I risk one question. I say it out loud, as clearly as my rusty voice will allow, so nothing will seem secretive. "Did Erron make it?" She gives me a nod, and as she slips a spoon into my hand, I feel the pressure of friendship.

I guess she did not wish me dead after all. And Erron has made it. Of course, he did. With all their expensive equipment here. Still, I hadn't been sure until now.

As the Avox leaves, the door closes noiselessly after her and I turn hungrily to the tray. A bowl of clear broth, a small serving of applesauce, and a glass of water. This is it? I think grouchily. Shouldn't my homecoming dinner be a little more spectacular? But I find it's an effort to finish the spare meal before me.

My stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a chestnut, and I have to wonder how long I've been out because I had no trouble eating a fairly sizable breakfast that last morning in the arena. There's usually a lag of a few days between the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person back together again. Somewhere, Cinna and Portia will be creating our wardrobes for the public appearances. Kano and Mileena will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, reviewing the questions for our final interviews. Back home, District 2 is probably in chaos as they try and organize the homecoming celebrations for Erron and me, given that the last one was close to thirty years ago.

Home! Khal and my mother! Jin! Even the thought of Khal's scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home!

I want to get out of this bed. To see Erron and Cinna, to find out more about what's been going on. And why shouldn't I? I feel fine. But as I start to work my way out of the band, I feel a cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes and almost immediately lose consciousness.

This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of time. My waking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register. The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since the feeding, my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a man's voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the rougher cadences of home. And I can't help having a vague, comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.

Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there's nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my middle has been removed and I am free to move about. I start to sit up but am arrested by the sight of my hands. The skin's perfection, smooth and glowing. Not only are the scars from the arena gone, but those accumulated over years of hunting have vanished without a trace.

My forehead feels like satin, and when I try to find the burn on my calf, there's nothing.

I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find them strong and steady.

Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what I wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team.

I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Erron. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about him. He must be all right or the Avox girl wouldn't have said so. But I need to see him for myself.

"Erron!" I call out, since there's no one to ask. I hear my name in response, but it's not his voice. It's a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness.

Mileena.

I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall — Mileena, Kano, and Cinna. I straighten myself and walk towards them, seeing them all smiling at me.

I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Kano's arms first. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, love," it doesn't sound sarcastic. Mileena's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were good. Cinna just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything. Then I notice Portia is absent and get a bad feeling.

"Where's Portia? Is she with Erron? He is all right, isn't he? I mean, he's alive?" I blurt out.

"He's fine. Only they want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony," says Kano.

"Oh. That's all," I say. The awful moment of thinking Erron's dead again passes. "I guess I'd want to see that myself."

"Go on with Cinna. He has to get you ready," says Kano.

It's a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty.

No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest.

When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Cinna. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.

They sweep me into the dining room and I get a real meal— roast beef and peas and soft rolls — although my portions are still being strictly controlled. Because when I ask for seconds, I'm refused.

"No, no, no. They don't want it all coming back up on the stage," says Octavia, but she secretly slips me an extra roll under the table to let me know she's on my side.

We go back to my room and Cinna disappears for a while as the prep team gets me ready.

"Oh, they did a full body polish on you," says Flavius enviously. "Not a flaw left on your skin." But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I'm sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs.

They take care of the shower settings for me, and they go to work on my hair, nails, and up when I'm done. They chatter so continuously that I barely have to reply, which is good, since I don't feel very talkative. It's funny, because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. "I was still in bed!" "I had just had my eyebrows dyed!" "I swear I nearly fainted!" Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.

We don't wallow around in the Games this way in District 2. We grit our teeth and watch because we must and try to get back to business as soon as possible when they're over. To keep from hating the prep team, I effectively tune out most of what they're saying.

Cinna comes in with what appears to be an unassuming red suit across his arms.

"Have you given up the whole 'man on fire' thing?" I ask.

"You tell me," he says, and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the padding over my arms, biceps, legs, and ass, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body.

My hands go to my chest and I frown.

"I know," says Cinna before I can object. "But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Kano had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise." He stops me before I can look at my reflection. "Wait, don't forget the shoes."Venia helps me into a pair of flat leather sandals and I turn to the mirror.

I am still the "man on fire." The sheer fabric softly glows. Even the slight movement in the air sends a ripple up my body. By comparison, the chariot costume seems garish, the interview suit too contrived. In this suit, I give the illusion of wearing candlelight.

"What do you think?" asks Cinna.

"I think it's the best yet," I say. When I manage to pull my eyes away from the flickering fabric, I'm in for something of a shock. My hair's loose, held back by a simple hairband. The up rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A clear polish coats my nails.

I look, very simply, like a girl. A young one. Eighteen at the most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it is shocking that Cinna has pulled this off when you remember I've just won the Games.

This is a very calculated look. Nothing Cinna designs is arbitrary. I bite my lip trying to figure out his motivation.

"I thought it'd be something more ... sophisticated-looking," I say.

"I thought Erron would like this better," he answers carefully.

Erron? No, it's not about Erron. It's about the Capitol and the Gamemakers and the audience. Although I do not yet understand Cinna's design, it's a reminder the Games are not quite finished. And beneath his benign reply, I sense a warning. Of something he can't even mention in front of his own team.

We take the elevator to the level where we trained. It's customary for the victor and his or her support team to rise from beneath the stage. First the prep team, followed by the escort, the stylist, the mentor, and finally the victor. Only this year, with two victors who have both an escort and a mentor, the whole thing has had to be rethought. I find myself in a poorly lit area under the stage. A brand-new metal plate has been installed to transport me upward. You can still see small piles of sawdust, smell fresh paint. Cinna and the prep team peel off to change into their own costumes and take their positions, leaving me alone.

In the gloom, I see a makeshift wall about ten yards away and assume Erron's behind it.

The rumbling of the crowd is loud, so I don't notice Kano until he touches my shoulder. I spring away, startled, still half in the arena, I guess.

"Easy, love, just me. Let's have a look at you," Kano says. I hold out my arms and turn once. "Good enough."

It's not much of a compliment. "But what?" I say.

Kano's eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?"

Okay, that's an odd request from Kano but, after all, we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order.

Only, when I put my arms around his neck, I find myself trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing his lips.

"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's... unhappy, at the maximum, about you showing them up in the arena." says Kano.

I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Kano is saying something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. "So, what?"

"Your only defense can be you love this man and want to be with him forever." Kano pulls back and adjusts my hairband. "Shouldn't be too hard, although I don't know." He flattens my hair. "Got it, love?" He could be talking about anything now.

"Got it," I say. "Did you tell Erron this?"

"Don't have to," says Kano. "He's already there."

"But you think I'm not?" I say, taking the opportunity to straighten a bright red bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into.

"Since when does it matter what I think?" says Kano."Better take our places." He leads me to the metal circle. "This is your night, love. Enjoy it." He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.

Hopefully, it will be put down to excitement. After all, it's my night.

The damp, moldy smell beneath the stage threatens to choke me. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin and I can't rid myself of the feeling that the boards above my head are about to collapse, to bury me alive under the rubble. When I left the arena, when the trumpets played, I was supposed to be safe.

From then on. For the rest of my life. But if what Kano says is true, and he's got no reason to lie, I've never been in such a dangerous place in my life.

It's so much worse than being hunted in the arena.

There, I could only die. End of story. But out here Khal, my mother, Jin, the people of District 12, everyone I care about back home could be punished if I can't pull off the driven-crazy-by-love scenario Kano has suggested.

So I still have a chance, though. Funny, in the arena, when I poured out those berries, I was only thinking of outsmarting the Gamemakers, not how my actions would reflect on the Capitol. But the Hunger Games are their weapon and you are not supposed to be able to defeat it. So now the Capitol will act as if they've been in control the whole time. As if they orchestrated the whole event, right down to the double suicide. But that will only work if I play along with them.

And Erron ... Erron will suffer, too, if this goes wrong.

But what was it Kano said when I asked if he had told Erron the situation? That he had to pretend to be desperately in love?

"Don't have to. He's already there."

Already thinking ahead of me in the Games again and well aware of the danger we're in? Or ... already desperately in love? I don't know. I haven't even begun to separate out my feelings about Erron. It's too complicated. What I did as part of the Games. Sure I love him, but I... don't know. Am I gonna marry him? I gave my innocence and virginity to him... on camera! I think back towards that. As opposed to what I did out of anger at the Capitol. Or because of how it would be viewed back in District 2.

Or simply because it was the only decent thing to do.

Or what I did because I cared about him.

These are questions to be unraveled back home, in the peace and quiet of the woods, when no one is watching. Not here with every eye upon me. But I won't have that luxury for who knows how long. And right now, the most dangerous part of the Hunger Games is about to begin.

 _Chapter Twenty-seven_

The anthem booms in my ears, and then I hear Johnny Cage greeting the audience. Does he know how crucial it is to get every word right from now on? He must. He will want to help us. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams are presented. I imagine Flavius, Venia, and Octavia bouncing around and taking ridiculous, bobbing bows. It's a safe bet they're clueless. Then Mileena's introduced. How long she's waited for this moment. I hope she's able to enjoy it because as misguided as Mileena can be, she has a very keen instinct about certain things and must at least suspect we're in trouble. Portia and Cinna receive huge cheers, of course, they've been brilliant, had a dazzling debut. I now understand Cinna's choice of dress for me for tonight. I'll need to look as innocent as possible. Kano's appearance brings a round of stomping that goes on at least five minutes. Well, he's accomplished a first. Keeping not only one but two tributes alive. What if he hadn't warned me in time?

Would I have acted differently? Flaunted the moment with the berries in the Capitol's face? No, I don't think so. But I could easily have been a lot less convincing than I need to be now. Right now. Because I can feel the plate lifting me up to the stage.

Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then there's Erron just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. And maybe that's because he's wearing a mask, and not wearing his hat. I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms.

We just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He's caressing me and all the time I'm thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in? After about five minutes of this, Johnny taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Erron just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Erron is playing the crowd exactly right.

Finally, Kano interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Erron that I'm practically on his lap, but one look from Kano tells me it isn't enough. Kicking off my boots, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Erron's shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His suit is made of the same material as mine, but Portia's put him in long black pants. He wears a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage.

Johnny Cage makes a few more jokes, and then it's time for the show. This will last exactly three hours and is required viewing for all of Panem. As the lights dim and the seal appears on the screen, I realize I'm unprepared for this. I do not want to watch my twenty-two fellow tributes die. I saw enough of them die the first time. My heart starts pounding and I have a strong impulse to run. How have the other victors faced this alone? During the highlights, they periodically show the winner's reaction up on a box in the corner of the screen. I think back to earlier years ... some are triumphant, pumping their fists in the air, beating their chests. Most just seem stunned. All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this love seat is Erron — his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn't have the Capitol looking for a way to destroy them.

Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell.

This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. I know Erron and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is spent on us, right from the beginning. I'm glad though, because it supports the whole crazy-in-love thing that's my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means we won't have as much time to linger over the deaths.

The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews.

There's this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead.

Once we're in the arena, there's detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us. Mostly Erron really, there's no question he's carrying this romance thing on his shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me, stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me escape and even while he lay in that mud bank, whispered my name in his sleep. I seem heartless in comparison — dodging fireballs, dropping nests, and blowing up supplies — until I go hunting for Rue.

They play her death in full, the spearing, my failed rescue attempt, my arrow through the boy from District 1's throat, Rue drawing her last breath in my arms. And the song. I get to sing every note of the song. Something inside me shuts down and I'm too numb to feel anything. It's like watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her in flowers.

Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion.

Things pick up for me once they've announced two tributes from the same district can live and I shout out Erron's name and then clap my hands over my mouth. If I've seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato's death are as gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met.

And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Erron's name as they try to revive him.

In terms of survival, it's my best moment all night.

The anthem's playing yet again and we rise as President Snow himself takes the stage followed by a little girl carrying a cushion that holds the crown.

There's just one crown, though, and you can hear the crowd's confusion — whose head will he place it on? — until President Snow gives it a twist and it separates into two halves. He places the first around Erron's brow with a smile. He's still smiling when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are as unforgiving as a snake's.

That's when I know that even though both of us would have eaten the berries, I am to blame for having the idea. I'm the instigator. I'm the one to be punished.

Much bowing and cheering follows. My arm is about to fall off from waving when Johnny Cage finally bids the audience good night, reminding them to tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they have a choice.

Erron and I are whisked to the president's mansion for the Victory Banquet, where we have very little time to eat as Capitol officials and particularly generous sponsors elbow one another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us. Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated as the evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of Kano, which is reassuring, or President Snow, which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking people and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is let go of Erron's hand.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I'll finally get a word alone with Erron, but Kano sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and personally escorts me to my door.

"Why can't I talk to him?" I ask.

"Plenty of time for talk when we get home," says Kano. "Go to bed, you're on air at two."

Despite Kano's running interference, I'm determined to see Erron privately. After I toss and turn for a few hours, I slip into the hall. My first thought is to check the roof, but it's empty. Even the city streets far below are deserted after the celebration last night. I go back to bed for a while and then decide to go directly to his room, but when I try to turn the knob, I find my own bedroom door has been locked from the outside. I suspect Kano initially, but then there's a more insidious fear that the Capitol may by monitoring and confining me. I've been unable to escape since the Hunger Games began, but this feels different, much more personal.

This feels like I've been imprisoned for a crime and I'm awaiting sentencing. I quickly get back in bed and pretend to sleep until Mileena Trinket comes to alert me to the start of another "big, big, big day!" I have about five minutes to eat a bowl of hot grain and stew before the prep team descends. All I have to say is, "The crowd loved you!" and it's unnecessary to speak for the next couple of hours. When Cinna comes in, he shoos them out and dresses me in a white, gauzy dress and pink shoes. Then he personally adjusts my up until I seem to radiate a soft, rosy glow. We make idle chitchat, but I'm afraid to ask him anything of real importance because after the incident with the door, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched constantly.

The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live audience at least.

Johnny Cage gives me a warm hug when I come in.

"Congratulations, Takeda. How are you faring?"

"Fine. Nervous about the interview," I say.

"Don't be. We're going to have a fabulous time," he says, giving my cheek a reassuring pat.

"I'm not good at talking about myself," I say.

"Nothing you say will be wrong," he says.

And I think, Oh, Johnny, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow may be arranging some sort of"accident" for me as we speak.

Then Erron's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Kano seems bent on keeping us apart." Kano is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately."

"Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Erron.

I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Johnny says, "Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet." So I tuck my feet up and Erron pulls me in close to him.

Someone counts backward and just like that, we're being broadcast live to the entire country. Johnny Cage is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Erron already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Erron.

Eventually though, Johnny begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. "Well, Erron, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Johnny says.

"From the moment I laid eyes on her," says Erron.

"But, Takeda, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" asks Johnny.

"Oh, that's a hard one ..." I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help.

"Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree," says Johnny.

Thank you, Johnny! I think, and then go with his idea.

"Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually red about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," I say.

"Why do you think that was?" urges Johnny.

"Maybe ... because for the first time ... there was a chance I could keep him," I say.

Behind a cameraman, I see Kano give a sort of huff with relief and I know I've said the right thing.

Johnny pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment because he's so moved. I can feel Erron press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh.

For Johnny, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it's not until we get around to the mutts that I forget I'm on camera. When Johnny asks Erron how his "new leg" is working out.

"New leg?" I say, and I can't help reaching out and pulling up the bottom of Erron's pants. "Oh, no," I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has replaced his flesh.

"No one told you?" asks Johnny gently. I shake my head.

"I haven't had the chance," says Erron with a slight shrug.

"It's my fault," I say. "Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," says Erron.

"He's right," says Johnny. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it."

I guess this is true, but I can't help feeling upset about it to the extent that I'm afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Erron's shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it's better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Johnny backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty much leaves me alone until the berries come up.

"Takeda, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries.

What was going on in your mind ... hm?" he says.

I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea of losing Erron that I can't be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. "I don't know, I just ... couldn't bear the thought of ... being without him."

"Erron? Anything to add?" asks Johnny.

"No. I think that goes for both of us," he says.

Johnny signs off and it's over. Everyone's laughing and crying and hugging, but I'm still not sure until I reach Kano."Okay?" I whisper.

"Perfect," he answers.

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there's nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. They drive us through the streets in a car with blackened windows, and the train's waiting for us. We barely have time to say good-bye to Cinna and Portia, although we'll see them in a few months, when we tour the districts for a round of victory ceremonies. It's the Capitol's way of reminding people that the Hunger Games never really go away. We'll be given a lot of useless plaques, and everyone will have to pretend they love us.

The train begins moving and we're plunged into night until we clear the tunnel and I take my first free breath since the reaping. Mileena is accompanying us back and Kano, too, of course. We eat an enormous dinner and settle into silence in front of the television to watch a replay of the interview. With the Capitol growing farther away every second, I begin to think of home. Of Prim and my mother. Of Gale. I excuse myself to change out of my dress and into a plain shirt and pants. As I slowly, thoroughly wash the up from my face and put my hair in its braid, I begin transforming back into myself. Takeda Everdeen. A girl who lives in the Seam. Hunts in the woods. Trades in the Hob. I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. By the time I join the others, the pressure of Erron's arm around my shoulders feels alien.

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we're allowed to go outside for some fresh air. There's no longer any need to guard us. Erron and I walk down along the track, hand in hand, and I can't find anything to say now that we're alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I work hard to look pleased. Because he can't know that the pink-and-white flowers are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I've spent gathering them with Gale.

Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn. But why? I can't quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home.

"What's wrong?" Erron asks.

"Nothing," I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where even I'm fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the track. Still no words come.

Kano startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I watch him head back to the train, avoiding Erron's eyes.

"What's he mean?" Erron asks me.

"It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," I blurt out.

"What? What are you talking about?" he says.

"It seemed too rebellious. So, Kano has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse,"I say.

"Coaching you? But not me," says Erron.

"He knew you were smart enough to get it right," I say.

"I didn't know there was anything to get right," says Erron. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess ... back in the arena ... that was just some strategy you two worked out."

"No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" I stammer.

"But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?"says Erron. I bite my lip. "Takeda?" He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance.

"It was all for the Games," Erron says. "How you acted."

"Not all of it," I say, tightly holding onto my flowers.

"Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" he says.

"I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none's forthcoming.

"Well, let me know when you work it out," he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.

I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I've climbed aboard, Erron has disappeared into his room for the night. I don't see him the next morning, either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we're pulling into District 12.

He gives me a nod, his face expressionless.

I want to tell him that he's not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can't explain how things are with Gale because I don't know myself. That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn't matter because I'll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we've just been through?

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him.

But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around us. Through the window, I can see the platform's thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching our homecoming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Erron extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

 **END OF BOOK ONE**


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